Howler: The Crumple Horned Snorkack
by chudleycannonsnumber1
Summary: Harry grows tired of his thankless work as an Auror trainee, and when the crime spree of a catburglar is made famous by the Daily Prophet's rumor mill, Harry is determined once again to break rank and investigate. Fourth in the Howler series.
1. Kingsley's Revenge

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

Some more info: This is part 4 in a series. Read 1-3, unless you enjoy confusion.

* * *

A spark of lightning in the distance sent a flash across the sea and over Azkaban island, illuminating the pale grey skin of the mountain troll as it stomped down the black front steps of Azkaban prison.

Shuffling down the stairs in front of the troll, emitting a clanging of shackles and chains with each step, was a short, scruffy man with a mat of ginger hair and patches of stubble on his chin. He wore a white jumpsuit that was lined from collar to ankle in horizontal black stripes.

The mountain troll guided the prisoner down the stairs by prodding his lower back repeatedly with its heavy wooden club. At the bottom of the stone steps, the troll pushed the man further along towards the shore of the island and onto a patch of grass marked _Apparition Area_ by a crooked wooden sign protruding from the damp dirt.

Just as the ginger-haired prisoner stepped out of the boundary of the anti-Apparition barrier of Azkaban prison, his heavy iron shackles vanished. With a relieved sigh, he began to rub his sore wrists and turned to see the security troll stomping back up the steps whence it came. When he turned back to face the shore, his eyes widened.

The prisoner was unable to hear it approach with his weakened hearing borne of months behind bars at Azkaban prison, which guarded its cold stone walls with the shrieks of seven banshees, one for each floor. Standing before him on the patch of grass that had been empty moments prior was a black mass, the features of which were indistinguishable in the darkness.

Another lash of lightning cracked on the horizon across the sea; a shimmer of purple swept over the massive shadow, and, for a moment, the outline of a slender man was revealed. With more bolts of lightning, the prisoner glimpsed the slender man's purple cap, gaunt acne-scarred face, and smirking mouth.

"'Ello, Dung," said the man.

"'Ello, Stan," replied Mundungus. "Why your lights off?"

Stan patted the giant purple bus behind him, and said, "She always needs to take a spell to recharge wheneva we've bin' crossin' too much water."

After a moment, the lights of the triple-decker bus flickered on, shining out through the many windows of its three floors.

"Come on, then. Move it!" insisted Stan as Mundungus stepped aboard, casting nervous glances to the towering prison nearby. "I 'ate comin' back to this godforsaken place."

"Evenin', Dung," said the driver of the bus, a young man with sandy brown hair and an Irish accent.

"Seamus," said Mundungus, nodding, as he walked to the nearest bed and took a seat as Stan closed the doors of the bus and followed him inside.

"All set," said Stan. "Take 'er away, Sham, n' the rest of you'd best 'old onto your bums!" he added in a loud enough voice to address the entire bus.

Mundungus gripped his bedpost and braced himself just as Seamus yanked a lever by the steering wheel. With a loud _BANG_, the bus shot forward off the shore and began skidding over the sea, splashing water high into the air in its wake.

"Blimey," mumbled Mundungus, panting slightly. Stan began whistling, appearing rather bored by the ride.

"So, Dung, I 'eard they putchoo on ice," said Stan, his lips twitching in amusement. "Wot'd you go n' do?"

"Just somethin' a long time ago," said Mundungus. "Our beloved Minister sure can hold a grudge—they snapped me wand, n' I'm not allowed a new one."

"You're lucky that's all they done wiv you," said Stan. "Wiv your record, tha' is. Oi, Sham, 'ow 'bout the radio?" he added, speaking over his shoulder in the direction of the drivers seat.

Seamus nodded and turned a knob near the dashboard; the voice of Lee Jordan, the host of Potterwatch, sounded throughout the bus. He was in mid-sentence.

"And that's why today's lesson is: Girls come and go, but friends are forever, and, if you're going to be shallow, you should expect the same treatment in return. Isn't that right, Dagger?"

A second voice, that of George Weasley, spoke: "You're right, Riv. I was brokenhearted—even got a cat, Hercules, who was a complete nightmare, may he rest in peace—but I shouldn't have been, because it's about more than just looks, and I wasn't as interested in the head she had so much as the head she gave. I paid the price."

"Completely inappropriate, as always," chuckled Lee. "But true. This concludes this week's Birdwatch. Now, back to the hard news: Willy Widdershins has been arrested for Muggle-baiting right in the heart of London—you hate to see that..."

"Always thought he was a wanker," said George "Whatever he did was probably comical, but don't forget that Muggle-baiting itself is the result of a vicious attitude towards Muggles."

"Yes, and the Minister's really stamping out any anti-Muggle leanings the Ministry may have had. Here with more on that is a new member of the Potterwatch team, Dumbledore's Army Dueling Tournament Champion, Ministry Official, member of the Golden Trio—"

"On with it, or we'll be here all day," said George.

"Hermione?" said Seamus, glancing towards the radio.

"Oi, concentrate on the roa—er—water!" warned Mundungus.

"There's nothin' to hit out here," said Seamus, listening intently to the radio speakers as Lee's voice continued.

"Yes, well, Gryffindor's own Hermione Granger, who will be known on Potterwatch by the codename 'Bramble.'"

"_Bramble?_" echoed Hermione Granger's voice throughout the bus in a laughing tone. "Is that a shot at my hair, River?"

"Can't get one past you, Bramble," replied Lee.

"And might I add that this _'Birdwatch'_ business is utterly—"

"Chauvinistic, immature, I know," scoffed George. "We're giving people good advice. Besides, we didn't bring you on for that."

The passengers of the Knight Bus sniggered as Hermione emitted a defiant 'hmph.'

"So," continued Lee. "Do tell us about the Ministry's new stance on anti-Muggle crimes, won't you?"

"It isn't merely a new stance, it's total Ministry reform. The Second War divided the Wizarding world more specifically than just 'good' and 'Death Eaters.' There were those who fought, those who hid, and those who sat by and did nothing. Despite the Ministry's strict, longstanding regulations, it appears to be a case of _to the victor go the spoils. _Many members of the now-defunct Order of the Phoenix have now taken control, and Minister Shacklebolt's decisions since taking office have been bold and heavily opposed by some of the more _old-fashioned_ officials in his cabinet."

"The Pureblood Death Eater sympathizers, you mean?" said George. "What's going to happen to Widdershins, then?"

"It is difficult," said Hermione thoughtfully. "Because the motive for a crime should not affect the sentencing. I know of a particular case long ago in which a wizard cursed multiple Muggles for revenge, and he was accused of being anti-Muggle. Of course, victimizing Muggles constitutes a significant threat to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and is a crime in itself."

"Sounds like opportunism," said Lee. "As Muggles are unaware of magic, many find amusement in the pranks one can pull on a Muggle."

"In Willy's case, however, he has a long history of Muggle-baiting and other anti-Muggle crimes. He'll be getting a cell in Azkaban, perhaps for years."

"Not effing around, are you?" said Lee. "I'll tell you who else isn't effing around: Teal Team Six, the Auror trainee squad that made the arrest."

"Ah, yes, the mavericks of the Auror Department," said George, his wicked grin evident in his tone. "They're just a band of renegades, aren't they, Bramble?"

"A band of fools, you mean," corrected Hermione sternly. "Several Muggles had to be Obliviated in the aftermath of the arrest, and Harry Potter has been put on probation for Transfiguring the culprit into a tree frog."

"That's brilliant," remarked Seamus.

"On top of that, they nearly destroyed half of a city block just to make one silly arrest!"

"And how are you going to punish Ron for this one?" asked George. "Silent treatment? Dish duty? Chocolate Frog embargo?"

"None of your business," said Hermione briskly.

"Ouch," said Lee. "That doesn't sound good. Try not to look so amused, Dag, honestly..."

"Joke's on her," said Seamus. "She's the brains of the operation."

"Good ol' 'Arry," said Stan, shaking his head. "Makin' a name fr'imself out there. I saved 'is life, y'know, when 'e was only firteen. Taught 'im 'bout Sirius Black... Yeah, wiffout me, 'Arry Potter would prolly be dead."

* * *

In the youth of the night, the brick road of Diagon Alley was lit with a haze of gold by flickering lanterns that dangled from every storefront. Some of the shops were dark and dormant at nightfall, but there remained several witches and wizards scattered about the street. Patrons of Flourish and Blotts were filing out of the shop at closing, hugging stacks of books to their chests.

Gliding across the street was a man shrouded in a black cloak that whipped around in his wake. His short black hair was slicked back, and his face was lined with shadows in the dim streetlight. It was cool for a summer night, and, as the man passed Fortescue Junior's Ice Cream Shop, he saw only one customer sitting at the tables outside, Dean Thomas, whose slender body was hunched over a sketch of a dragon in flight.

Occasionally casting shifty glances through the windows of nearby shops, the man in the black cloak continued down the alley, past a woman tugging her child along by the wrist. A gust of wind blew a scrapped Daily Prophet newspaper across the street like a tumbleweed; its front page featured a picture of Ludo Bagman, who had been recently released from St. Mungo's Hospital.

The man turned left at the stoop of Gringotts Bank, keeping a suspecting eye on a gray-robed wizard who was loitering on the bank's white steps. As he neared the Leaky Cauldron, the man stopped before a solid brick wall that blocked his path. He slid a pale hand into his cloak and withdrew a magic wand, then tapped its tip against several of the bricks of the obstructive wall.

The wall began to shift as its bricks rearranged of their own accord, leaving an opening in the middle wide enough for the man to pass through. As the gate of Diagon Alley opened, a pink-cheeked woman with blonde hair was revealed; she was holding her wand out to the wall and looking startled.

"Neville!" she said. "I was just about to open the gate."

"Oh, h-hello Hannah," said Neville shakily. He exhaled a bracing sigh, then said, "Ready to go?"

"I think so—but what have you done to your hair? Should I call you 'Count Longbottom?'"

"Thought I'd dress nice." Neville shrugged defensively, eliciting a smile from Hannah.

"Right then, let me make sure I've got everything," said Hannah as she began rummaging through her bag. Neville took this time to screw up his hair.

"All sorted," concluded Hannah. "Where are we going?"

"A Muggle restaurant called Berramacha," said Neville as he walked past Hannah.

"Oh, I've been there," she replied, following Neville through the Leaky Cauldron and out of Diagon Alley.

At the other end of Diagon Alley, through the front window of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Joke Shop, two people observed Hannah and Neville from the front counter. One was a ginger-haired man with one ear missing, and the other was a black woman with braided hair and an amused smile.

"_God speed, fair wizard,_" whispered George, clenching his fist intensely.

"He's not marching out to war," mused Angelina. "He'll come back alive."

"I hope so," replied George as he hopped up onto the counter to sit next to Angelina. "Though, knowing Neville, something as simple as having dinner with a girl can go wrong. Verily."

Another voice spoke from a nearby aisle of the shop: "Hm?"

"No, Verity, I said 'verily,' the word."

"Oh," said Verity as she stepped into sight. "Inventory's done, so I'm going to head off."

"Goodnight then," said George.

Verity nodded and retrieved her bag from behind the counter, then strode to the front door. Angelina shifted her eyes from Verity to George several times while waiting for Verity to leave.

"Have you ever fooled around with her?" she finally asked as the door closed.

"Absolutely not," said George blankly.

"Not at all?" continued Angelina. "Not even when you were out chatting up every girl in sight?"

"That's how I deal with grief, Angie," said George. "And hunger, and apathy, and—"

"So how come you've never tried me?"

George paused for a moment, staring silently at her, then said: "I've also had to cancel our line of Honeyjuice beverages..."

"Don't change the—hang on, why?"

"People aren't buying them."

"They're so good!"

"Yeah, but they're frothy and yellow." Angelina tensed her eyebrows, clearly not following, and George sighed. "They look like piss, Angie."

"Oh, nonsense," scoffed Angelina. "So does Butterbeer."

There was another pause where George merely stared thoughtfully.

"What?" Angelina finally asked.

"You've ruined Butterbeer for me."

"I think you'll be fine."

"Well, speaking of 'piss,' I think I'll go take one." George hopped down off the counter and made for the stairs.

"Wait, answer me first," said Angelina. George turned around.

"Mother Nature ill needs your interference," he said, puffing out his chest.

"But seriously—"

"This is serious. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman. The fate of the world—"

"Stop messing around—"

"Fine then! May the heavens twist, and universe implode because you 'messed around' with the balance of nature!" bellowed George, his booming voice echoing throughout the shop. As Angelina merely stood tapping her foot, George grinned, turned around, and marched off. "And now, the pissing lamp shall be lit."

"He's so... twat," grumbled Angelina.

Then, the front door of the shop banged open, chiming a jingle from the bell above it. Angelina gripped her wand and turned to see a figure hobbling through the doorway. After a few moments, Angelina recognized the man as Neville, though his face was blackened with soot and his hair was standing on end. Bits of his clothes were shredded and every step he took made a wet, slippery squeak.

"Bad weather out there?" joked Angelina. Neville limped past her towards the stairs.

"Don't wanna talk about it," he mumbled.

* * *

Over the fields of England, the night sky was deep and bright, and the moon a gleaming white crescent high overhead. The sky was such a vivid blue that it rendered the hills and farms below a black silhouette, with grass, brush, and trees that shivered in the wind. The soundscape was that of swooshing breeze and the quiet chatter of talk-radio emanating from somewhere near the storage shed of one such farm.

From a window on the second floor of the farmhouse, a young boy with short brown hair and large front teeth gazed out at the grounds below, invisible in the darkness but for his glasses, the lenses of which shone like silver coins in the moonlight. The shining spectacles followed the paths of two figures in the yard below as they approached the house, speaking in whispers.

"I'm just saying you can't count them out just yet," said one of them, with the voice of a young male. The eavesdropping boy leaned closer to the window to listen.

"I already have," said the other, a woman.

"So did the Harpies, and we all know how that turned out," shot the man.

"What was that, the Cannons' single win of the season?"

"One of two, and they were robbed out of many more! It's just the referees, you know—can't tell you how many times Madame Hooch let a Slytherin get away with playing dirty."

"Says the man who drank liquid luck to win..."

"I did not!"

The two figures walked onto the front porch; the boy was no longer able to see them from his window, so he stepped down from the sill and shuffled out of his room. He crept onto the second floor landing and peered down at the living room.

Upon seeing the living room, he furrowed his eyebrows in frustration; his mother and father were shouting back and forth in a heated argument, and four of his father's friends, whom the boy considered to be gentlemen of ill repute, were standing behind his father and sniggering at his misfortune.

"There's nothing left to do but quit," said his mother, a woman with a stern sort of expression aided by her thick black eyebrows and tight ponytail. "And, for the record, I never approved of any of it."

"I don't need your approval," said his father, who was slightly overweight and balding. "'Sides, I've made most of me money from Snatchin' and I can't quit now."

"There's nobody left to snatch!" shouted the boy's mother with a wild chuckle. "How daft can you be? It's been outlawed!"

"Then I'm an outlaw—n' I know there are no Snatchers anymore, don't be stupid."

"That's rich, coming from a criminal who robbed a Muggle grocery. What are we supposed to do with these slips of paper?"

The father glanced around at his sniggering friends, growling, then set his eyes back on his wife, who was now ripping bits of Muggle money apart. The father's eyes twitched with a sort of desperation, and, with a wrathful snarl, he raised his arm and struck her with an open hand.

The boy at the top of the stairs did not wince or gasp, but merely sat down at the top step of the staircase, looking interested. From there, he watched his mother retaliate by whipping her leg forward in a soccer-style kick that connected with the father's shin. The boy smirked as his father yelped and lifted the struck leg up, urgently rubbing the point of impact and hopping around on one leg to maintain his balance.

When the man regained his composure, poised to strike back, there was a knock at the door. He stomped across the room, huffing along the way, and stumbled over a baby blue armchair. He stopped for a moment, eyeing the chair with confusion, until another knock sounded from the door. The man walked to the door and glanced through the door's peephole, barking: "What d'you want?"

When the man put his eye to the hole, he saw nothing but a flash of blinding red light and the door was blasted in, bowling him over. Two more jets of ruby shot into the house, exploding against the floor and ricocheting sparks through the air.

The trampled man's four friends shoved their grimy hands into their patchy robes and drew their wands, taking aim at the two people that had just burst in. One of the intruders, a tall man with bright ginger hair, was shooting rapid-fire scarlet lightning bolts at the ex-Snatchers and yelling "_Stupefy,_" while the other, a short woman with black hair that surrounded her face, was holding her wand up high to produce a shield charm to deflect the incoming attacks.

One of the ex-Snatchers fell to the ground, stunned, while the other three produced their own shield charms and blocked the remaining blasts. As the duelists flourished their wands about, the nearby baby blue armchair sprang to life; it stood up straight, and morphed comically into a young man with jet black hair and circular glasses, who then joined the fray.

The boy at the top of the stairs looked on with wide eyes as rogue curses and destructive hexes dismantled the living room. Holes were being punched into the walls, glass windows were shattering from force, and several objects had been Transfigured into small animals.

The boy stood up as he saw his mother crawling behind a couch for cover and started walking down the stairs towards her, but was yanked back by his shirt. The boy scrambled to his feet and looked up to see that he had been grabbed by a man with wavy blonde hair and a gaunt, slightly twisted face.

"Stay here," said Ernie Macmillan. "I'm an Auror."

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" shouted Harry Potter, levitating a nearby chair and launching it at one of the ex-Snatchers; it missed and shattered over Ron Weasley's back. "Sorry!"

When Ernie joined the fight, the tide tipped in favor of the Aurors. Before long, each of the ex-Snatchers were properly bound, Stunned, and disarmed. Clarinda turned to the mother, who had stepped out from her cover behind the couch.

"Are there any more?" she asked.

"No," the woman replied distractedly as she surveyed her ravaged living room.

"No need to thank us, ma'm," panted Harry, who was leaning over a chair, breathing heavily.

"_Thank_ you?" shouted the woman. Harry jolted upright. "Look at what you've done to my house!"

"He was going to hit you!" said Ron indignantly while rubbing his pained back.

"I can take care of myself! Who's going to fix my living room?"

"Just run a quick Reparo over it," suggested Ernie.

"_REPARO?_ HALF OF MY FURNITURE HAS SPROUTED LEGS AND HEADED FOR THE HILLS!"

"Sorry about that," said Harry. "But we've got to take these criminals back to the Ministry. We can fix what's left, though."

"Get to it then, and I don't want you lot coming back—"

There was a creaking at the top of the stairs. Everyone's eyes shot to the young boy that stood on the second floor landing. He merely stared at them through the shiny lenses of his glasses, until finally he spoke.

"Cool," was all he said.

"I like this kid," declared Ron.

"Oh, honey, are you alright?" questioned the mother, her tone suddenly soft, as she shuffled up the stairs.

"Who throws a chair?" mumbled Ron as they began rounding up the ex-Snatchers. Harry shrugged.

"_Reparo!_" echoed through the house repeatedly as the four Auror trainees swept the room with their wands. Shards of glass melted together to form the windows, chair and table legs snapped back into place, and rips in the couch cushions sewed themselves shut.

"That should do it," said Harry after mending the hinges of the front door. "Quite an entrance, by the way."

"Nothing to yours," said Clarinda.

"A Slughorn specialty." Harry opened the reattached door and flicked his wand at one of the subdued ex-Snatchers, levitating him into the air. "Just a bit lucky this one was too thick to notice that a new armchair had appeared in his house."

"Good thing he didn't sit on you," added Ron.

A few footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs; alarmed, the Auror trainees immediately hurried for the exit.

"Let's get the hell out of here," whispered Clarinda. "Before she comes back."

"Clarinda," said Harry as he led the way out through the front door.

"Yes, Harry?"

"How would you like a man to propose to you?"

"_Ooh,_" she gushed. "Let's see..."

"Bit of a can of worms there, mate," said Ron.

"Probably over a romantic dinner, perhaps one he'd cooked himself—he'd have to be a good cook, because I'm just dreadful—or, if he were a famous Quidditch star—"

"Romantic dinner," said Harry quickly, cutting her off. "Got it."


	2. Plots and Plans

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

Sunlight was just beginning to spill out onto Diagon Alley over the concrete horizon. The streets were empty but for a few shop owners shuffling to their places of business, bracing themselves under their robes in the cold morning air.

Inside the flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Joke Shop at the end of the alley, four of the shop's employees had gathered together for breakfast before the start of the business day. George Weasley's flat was in its usual mess, with dirty dishes stacked high on the coffee table, discarded scraps of parchment littering the floor, and a few owl feathers near the window from Errol's latest delivery.

Lounging on a magically enlarged brown armchair by the coffee table, George was in the midst of reporting the progress of his latest project.

"It's a quandary," he said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Might even ask Bill for help fixing it. He's a professional Cursebreaker and even he'd have a job with this."

"Hang on," said Lee, whose dreadlocks had grown enough to surround his face and reach his chin. "I thought you've been building the Forge."

"I've had to put that one on hold until Dad retires," replied George.

"Thanks to the sodding Prophet," said Angelina. "Every time somebody sees an enchanted vehicle, Arthur's the prime suspect."

"How do you find the time to invent the joke shop products?" wondered Neville. The tips of his ears were still blackened from his date the night before.

"Fred and I brainstormed quite a bit at Hogwarts—we obviously weren't doing schoolwork," said George with a weak smile. "Now I've got a good store of ideas left over."

The mention of Fred's name left a heavy silence among the joke shop employees, which was only broken by the sound of chewing and the clanging of cutlery. After everyone had finished their breakfast, there was a knock at the door.

"That'll be Verity," said George. "Is it time already?"

George stood and carefully stepped across the messy living room, then strolled down the hall and opened the front door.

"Oh, hello, Hannah," he said. "For you, Neville!" he then called.

Neville sprang up from his chair and jogged down the hall as George returned, grinning. George took a seat next to Angelina, who was listening intently to the voices of Neville and Hannah down the hall. Soon, a loud _CRASH_ was heard, accompanied by Neville's urgent apologies.

"Smooth one, that Neville," mused Lee, shaking his head.

"You weren't very smooth with Yue," shot Angelina. George and Lee gasped.

"_Angie!_" said George, looking shocked.

"What have I done?"

"We do not speak that name!" said Lee. Angelina scoffed.

"I'm going out for a bit with Hannah," said Neville as he popped back into the room. "I'll be back before my shift—oh, and I'll fetch that shipment of fairy wings too."

"Cheers," said George as Neville left.

"Proves nothing," said Lee at Angelina's simper. "Hannah just fancies clumsy blokes, that's all."

"Yes, but I taught him everything he knows, of course," said George, leaning back and hoisting his feet up on the coffee table.

"Oh, and does that include conjuring a storm and getting struck by lightning in a Muggle restaurant?" giggled Angelina.

"Blimey, is that what happened?" said George. "I'd thought perhaps he'd gone too far and touched something he wasn't supposed to—a George Weasley specialty—and got zapped for it."

"Neville doesn't need any help from you two prats," said Angelina. "He's mature enough to seek meaningful relationships. I respect that, even if they end in lightning strikes."

"I have a meaningful relationship with my Boomslang skin supplier," said George with a shrug. "Does that earn any respect from you?"

"Hagrid?" asked Angelina. George nodded. "You're an interesting pair, but, after Madame Maxime, I'm afraid you've caught him on the rebound."

"Not funny." George stood and checked his watch. "Now stop lecturing and go turn a profit."

"Normally I'd let you off," said Angelina, standing as well and following George and Lee to the door. "But you've actually got the nerve to provide love advice on air!"

"Perhaps we're acting like insensitive gits on purpose," suggested Lee. "That way we'll have the first-hand experience needed to help blokes with their avian troubles."

"We're women, not birds," sighed Angelina.

"Then why is the segment called _Birdwatch_?" asked George. "Think logically, Angie."

"You named it!"

"I did not." George nodded towards Lee.

"All right, Angie," said Lee, stopping and turning to face her. "If you're such an oracle of relationships, then come on the next Birdwatch and share your knowledge with the rest of us."

"I'd rather not," replied Angelina with crossed arms.

"Why not?"

"Because you've already given me a silly nickname and I doubt anybody's going to take serious advice from someone who's been introduced as '_Kitten_.'"

* * *

The atrium of the Ministry of Magic was vast and bright, its every surface polished to a reflective sheen. Atop its shiny wooden floor, rows of black marble Floo Network fireplaces lined the room, one wall devoted to arrivals and the other to departures. At the beginning of the work day, the atrium was packed with a sea of Ministry employees, all walking in different directions at a brisk pace.

At one end of the hall, Edward the Security wizard took account of guests that entered through the visitor's entrance. At the other end, the Ministry fountain stood, shimmering and golden, with its four statues: one of Albus Dumbledore, tall and thin with a long beard and a twinkle in his eye behind his half-moon spectacles; another of a tall, bearded centaur holding a bow and arrow; beside the centaur, a short goblin with bony fingers and pointed ears; and a scrawny House Elf with a bright smile and tennis ball-sized eyes. Sparkling streams of water flowed from the tip of the wizard's wand, the House Elf's ears, the goblin's hat, and the centaur's arrow. At the base of the fountain, engraved in a loopy font, were the words _Peace is Power._

With a roar of green flames, Hermione materialized inside one of the fireplaces that lined the walls of the atrium and stepped casually into the crowd of Ministry employees and guests, then turned around to face the fireplace whence she came, crossing her arms expectantly.

The fire revved up again and Harry Potter burst out of the fireplace at high speed, skidding along the polished wooden floor as if he were surfing. He came to a stop just before colliding with a passing Daily Prophet salesman, who flinched, then shot him a dirty look as he walked past.

"One of these days, Harry," said Hermione, shaking her head slowly, though with an amused smirk.

"What?" said Harry defensively as he adjusted his glasses. "I've got to get to work, haven't I?"

"Soon, I suspect they'll force you to use the visitor's entrance indefinitely."

"Hey, heroes can Floo however they bloody want to."

"Oh, not this 'hero' nonsense again."

As Harry smirked at Hermione's rolled eyes, there was another emerald blaze from a nearby fireplace, immediately followed by a heavy thud and a pained groan. Hermione and Harry turned to see a floored Ron Weasley untangling himself from a black-robed Ministry official.

"Watch where you're going!" growled the Ministry employee as he stood and brushed dust off of his robes.

"Sorry," said Ron sheepishly as the man adjusted his tie and walked away, maintaining a mean glare at Ron until he turned the corner. "You see that? Some people just can't respect an accident."

"What did you try to do?" asked Hermione knowingly, raising her eyebrows.

"Slide in backwards," mumbled Ron.

"It's not a competition, Ron," said Hermione, though she couldn't fight back her laughter.

"That's just something people say when they can't compete," replied Ron with his eyelids shut halfway and his mouth curling into a smirk.

"I would think that you two would mind your manners today," continued Hermione as the three began walking through the throng of Ministry employees towards the lifts. "Especially since you'll probably be reprimanded for how you handled that arrest last night."

"No one was hurt, and we arrested all the suspects, as I recall," said Harry. "Sounds like it went fine."

"Yes, but your boss does not assess the success of a mission in accordance with the criterion you personally judge to be good," replied Hermione, and she ignored Ron theatrically clutching his head in his hands as if her diction harmed his brain. "Consider your relationship with him as a test."

"Love those," mumbled Ron.

"_On a test_," continued Hermione, "you're supposed to give the answer they're looking for, even if it isn't necessarily the best answer."

"Rubbish," declared Harry. "If I've got the correct answer and he hasn't, then one day I'll be Head of the Auror Department."

"Not if you're sacked before then," said Ron. "Hermione's right, you know, we should just play the game for now, for our own good."

"You're one to talk," said Harry. "Seeing as you're the one who always comes up with those brilliant ideas that get us in trouble."

"Dunno what you're banging on about," replied Ron with an innocent shrug. "You're Harry Potter, rule-breaker extraordinaire. I'm a good boy who obeys his mum."

"_For the record, it was my idea,_" recited Hermione in a deep voice and with a goofy grin; her most accurate and least flattering impression of Ron.

"I know you think that's insulting," said Ron, "but I find it rather adorable when you do that. It's all I can do not to just start snogging you stupid—and that would take a very long time."

"Why don't you do yourself one better and go find yourself a mirror," suggested Hermione. "Narcissist."

"Hey, that's one thing I'm not."

"You know, that's ironic. It was a mirror that proved you're not a narcissist," said Harry, determined to steer the conversation away from his best friends' flirting. "The Mirror of Erised, remember?"

"Ooh, what did you see?" asked Hermione eagerly.

"What—_you,_ you reckon?" said Ron, smirking. "And you call me a narcissist."

"Oh no, I'm assuming this was in our first year, and I definitely wouldn't have seen myself with you either."

"You never know."

"I'm sure."

"Enough already!" said Harry. "No flirting at work—for my sanity, please!"

Ron and Hermione glanced at Harry apologetically, then remained quiet as they made their way towards the lifts.

"Look, it's Harry Potter!"

"Is that the Trio?"

"It is!"

Whispers followed them like buzzing bees as they made their way to the end of the hall. With every mention of their names, Harry and Ron's matching smirks grew more pronounced, and they adopted a sort of proud strut as they walked, while Hermione looked on with narrowed eyes.

"You know I never had you pegged as an attention-seeker, Harry!" Hermione protested.

"I'm not, but now I've got an actual body of work that people recognize..."

"Right, that girl there is really appreciating your _body of work,_ isn't she?"

"And mine," added Ron. "Morning, Perce," he then said before Hermione could respond, as his brother Percy walked by. Percy nodded curtly while adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses.

"'Lo, Charlotte," said Harry, winking at a red-robed Security witch who was standing guard next to her twin, who Harry then greeted. "And Lydia... or is it the other way around?"

"Lucky guess," said Charlotte.

"Hey, Cattermole, how's the wife?" asked Ron. Cattermole responded with a rude hand gesture. "Only joking, mate!"

Ron shared a chuckle with Harry before Hermione rapped him on the arm harshly.

"Oi!" protested Ron. "She's the one who kissed me, remember?"

"Right, I'd forgotten, how silly of me," said Hermione. "And, of course, you backed away immediately, since the Polyjuice was wearing off."

Ron coughed and looked away, and Hermione continued: "It would have been rather inappropriate, and perhaps a bit traumatic for her at the time to see her husband turn into someone else while she's kissing him, so, in true Ron Weasley fashion, you did the sensible thing and stepped away."

"Here we are," said Harry boredly; they had arrived at the lifts. "And save it for the bedroom, won't you?"

They were joined by two old, wispy Wizengamot elders and a young Indian witch in black robes with her hair in a tight bun; she seemed out of breath, as though she had just barely caught the open lift by sprinting to it. As the lift's wrought golden grilles clanged shut and they began their descent, Harry tapped the witch on the shoulder.

"All right, Parvati?" he said.

She turned and smiled, still panting, and said, "Hey, guys."

"_Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office,_" echoed a cool female voice as they passed by a floor with many off-white paper airplanes fluttering just under the ceiling and, on the walls, several moving posters of famous Quidditch teams in flight.

"How are you?" asked Hermione.

"Properly late," Parvati replied, catching her breath. "I was due at a meeting fifteen minutes ago."

"If you're late, then we're probably no better off," said Harry as he checked his watch. "Yep, by a few minutes. That won't help."

"What won't it help?" asked Parvati.

"There was some minor property damage on our last mission," Harry explained. "Boss says there's been a complaint."

"You'd think she'd be more bloody grateful," added Ron. "We did save her from that abusive git, so what if she's lost some furniture over it?"

"You could just say that the damage was caused by the criminals," suggested Parvati.

"That's plan _A_," said Harry.

They came to a stop as the voice of the lift spoke again: "_Level six, Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Center._"

"Good luck," said Parvati as she stepped out through the open gate, then walked down the hall and out of sight.

"So, now we're alone," said Ron, turning to Hermione.

"We're not alone," said Hermione briskly.

"Harry doesn't mind," said Ron. Hermione nodded towards the two old Wizengamot wizards standing quietly in the corner of the car, barely tall enough to reach Ron's stomach. "Oh."

"_Level five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law, and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats._"

At this stop, the two wizards exited the lift in a hurry, though Harry suspected it wasn't actually their destination.

"For the future," said Harry. "If I'm in the room with you two, you definitely aren't alone, and you should behave as such."

"Don't be a stick in the mud, mate," said Ron. "Wouldn't hurt you to look the other way, would it?"

"All right, so if it's just you, me, and Ginny alone together..."

"We'll stop," agreed Ron, clearing his throat. Harry nodded.

"_Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions,Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau._"

"I'll see you at lunch—you can tell me all about your punishment," said Hermione as she stepped out of the lift. "Do let Harry do the talking, won't you?"

"Watch it!" said Ron with a scowl.

"Only joking, darling."

Hermione smiled, then strode off as the lift descended past the floor.

"Er, sorry you have to put up with us," said Ron. Harry nodded gratefully. "I let Hermione tell me one of her ridiculous Muggle fairy tales last night—something about a king and a knight, or a king who was also a knight, I don't know—anyway, I made some comment that she really appreciated, apparently, and we've been, well—"

"Unbearable," supplied Harry.

"Yeah, ever since. Bit of a lucky break, though, eh?"

"Feign pigheadedness all you like, Ron, but I know you remember whatever soppy thing you said, and if you don't stop flirting around me for the rest of the day, I'm going to find out what it was and take the mickey out of you until I'm blue in the face."

"All right, sheesh..."

When Harry and Ron arrived at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, they met each other's eyes and both exhaled a deep, bracing breath, then stepped out onto their floor. The two Aurors-in-training walked down the hallway that led to the heavy oak double doors of the Auror Headquarters, their only company the interdepartmental memos that flew overhead in the form of paper airplanes.

Though they were underground, the windows that lined the hallway displayed a view of country hills at night. The view had not changed for several weeks; Harry surmised from this that Magical Maintenance was busied by the recent sale at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, which had caused an increase in office pranks.

"They can't sack us," said Harry finally as they reached the double doors. "It'd double Bluish-Purple's workload, and we're understaffed as it is."

"'Course they won't," said Ron as they pushed the doors open. "You do know you're Harry Potter, don't you?"

The Auror Headquarters was a labyrinth of cubicles, with paper planes fluttering between them like birds with cluttered stacks of paperwork as their nests. Each cubicle was a junkyard of broken quills and scrolls of parchment, as well as personal trinkets and moving Quidditch posters.

Harry and Ron navigated expertly through the grid of cubicles towards the opposite end of the office, where they could already hear their boss, Gawain Robards, admonishing other trainees. The two boys turned a corner and Mr. Robards came into view; he was very short and wore grey robes with a matching wizard's hat under which only his bulbous nose was visible, twitching as he spoke.

"Potter!" he barked, looking at Harry's legs. "Weasley!"

"Sir," they said in unison, perking up.

"I don't know what you've been getting up to," he began, his voice calming to a growl. "But we've received complaints that you've been reckless. Just as reckless as these two," he added, gesturing to his right, where Ernie Macmillan and Clarinda Murdoch stood with their heads down.

"It was the culprits," said Harry quickly; perhaps too quickly, as Mr. Robards' response was a scoff.

"It was the culprits that blew through their own door from the outside, then?"

"He was abusing his wife," said Clarinda in a low voice.

"I've had enough," continued Mr. Robards. "In time, you'll learn to put the Department first."

"With respect, sir, I plan on taking an oath to protect the Wizarding world when I become an Auror," said Harry. "A promise I've not broken once in my life."

"Me too," added Ron. Harry's eyes narrowed.

"In life, that's as may be, but an Auror has responsibilities to the Ministry. You're Aurors, not heroes."

Ron grunted a triumphant sort of _heh_, smirking at Harry.

"I know your type," Mr. Robards continued. "The four of you, you see the Book of Ministry Regulations and Guidelines—you don't follow it, but you don't ignore it. Instead, you circumvent it. You abuse it. You make the simplest part of my job a lot harder. Generally, I sack the ones that don't follow the book, and only consider the ones that do. You're at the halfway point."

Teal Team Six held their breath as Mr. Robards stopped for a moment to survey their lower bodies.

"I don't intend to praise you in any way, but most of the great Aurors to date have been that way. Look at Dawlish: goes to sleep at night with a Ministry Etiquette pamphlet tucked under his pillow, and he's a complete dunderhead. But, the guidelines are put in place to protect you, the Aurors. When people play the hero and get careless about them, it's chaos, and that's what we're working against."

Mr. Robards turned away from them and opened the door to his office, then stepped inside, turned around, and said, "Teal Team Six is now on Underage Magic patrol indefinitely. Good day." At that, he slammed his office door shut, as the members of Teal Team Six chorused anguished groans.

"Underage magic!" growled Ron as he, Harry, Clarinda, and Ernie made their way to the coffee cauldron in a far corner of the office. "He's barking! We're the best trainees they've got, and he bloody well knows it. To hell with his guidance, anyway!"

"I'm going to change this place," decided Harry. Ron nodded fervently in agreement. "One day, we'll be in charge."

"I thought the arrest went well," said Ernie as he poured four mugs of coffee.

"It did," said Clarinda. She smiled gratefully as Ernie handed her a mug. "Only that woman was mental."

"Ah," sighed Ron after taking a sip of his coffee. "After Hermione's tasteless biscuits, this coffee tastes like the best I've ever had."

"She's confiscated Ron's supply of Chocolate Frogs as punishment for his job performance," explained Harry.

"The woman thinks I'll quiver at her every beck and call," said Ron between sips. "She says I'm only allowed the sugar-free snacks, can you believe that, as if I'd just obey..."

Harry laughed inwardly; Ron had indeed obeyed thusfar.

"Good coffee, though," continued Ron. "It's as though it was sweetened with phoenix tears, and strained through a filter of sugar... and dreams... and the beans roasted by the breath of a Flavor Dragon..."

"I've noticed a fine line between hunger and insanity with you," observed Ernie.

"Oh, that reminds me, Ron, can I have a word?" asked Harry. "Excuse me, guys."

Harry and Ron stepped into Harry's cubicle and set their mugs down. Ron sat down in Harry's chair and looked up at him expectantly.

"I'm planning to propose to Ginny," he said delicately. Ron's eyes widened.

"Oh... er, brilliant," said Ron, eliciting a sigh of relief from Harry. "When?"

"I'm not sure, and don't tell anybody. I just wanted to ask you what you reckon first, y'know, before I made any plans."

"This was wise of you."

"I've got the ring already, though," said Harry.

"Bit early, innit?"

Harry shook his head and rummaged through his pocket and retrieved a shiny gold band, then dropped it in Ron's hand.

"I thought the engagement ones had diamonds," said Ron, his face falling a bit as he inspected the ring.

"I did a bit of research into marriage traditions, and I was astonished at the inefficiency of the whole thing," explained Harry. "Why buy one ring only to replace it with another?"

"You've got a point, but women don't care about making sense," argued Ron. "Hermione's a fan of the Bronze Age, for instance, but I'd never get a bronze ring—"

"But that isn't bronze, it's gold!" said Harry, gesturing towards the ring, as though expecting Ron to suddenly realize the brilliance of it at any moment. "I never had a mum to teach me this stuff, anyway."

"Is that what you're going to say to Ginny when you propose?"

"Oh come off it, you know just as little as I do."

"I wouldn't say that," said Ron bemusedly as he returned the ring to Harry. "Dating Hermione is rather educational, after all."

"Did I hear correctly, Potter?" asked a voice from outside of Harry's cubicle.

Harry started and turned quickly to see two brown eyes peering down at him over his cubicle wall underneath a brown bowler hat. Harry let out a breath as he identified the man by his ginger hair and missing ear; George Weasley circled around to the entrance of Harry's cubicle without breaking eye contact with Harry.

"What're you doing here?" asked Ron.

"Kingsley's requested a chat now he's heard of my latest project," said George slowly, still eyeing Harry curiously. "But it's on a small scale, nothing dangerous..."

"Oh yeah, I'm convinced."

"Anyway, is it true?" questioned George, pointing at the ring in Harry's hand. Harry nodded, causing George to grin from ear to non-ear.

"You're going to propose to my dear baby sister with _that?_" asked George as he took the ring from Harry and inspected it. "Where'd you find this, the _It's The Thought That Counts_ section?"

Harry cleared his throat, then shrugged. "It's pretty and gold, what more—"

"It's a joke!" stated George. "A bad joke—I'd never stock my shelves with it, at least—of course, it's a good ring, but it's a tad plain, don't you think?"

"A touch, perhaps—"

"And in this situation, don't you find the lack of razzle-dazzle rather inappropriate? I'm hardly enraptured by this ring, Harry. You won't be kneeling down to ask her anything until you get a better one. Ron, you're supposed to be looking out for her."

"I am!" insisted Ron, standing up.

"Well, if you do propose to Hermione, you'd best run your plan by me or Bill first," suggested George. "Then again, the way you two are, I fully expect her to be the one to pop the question."

"She will not, and you've never proposed to anyone," Ron pointed out. "Not seriously, at least. You're no expert."

"Fair point."

George gestured for Harry and Ron to follow him as he strolled out of the cubicle. He glanced around the office for a moment, then turned right and walked down the aisle that led to the coffee cauldron.

"Clarinda," he said as he approached Clarinda and Ernie from behind. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

"George!" she said, her face brightening. "I saw you come in, but I also wanted coffee, so—"

"I too have been watching you from afar, with a longing in my heart," said George softly.

Clarinda blinked, taken aback. Harry, Ron, and Ernie watched incredulously.

"I must confess, Clarinda," continued George as he lowered himself to one knee and presented her with Harry's gold ring. "That, deep within me, there's a whole garden that blooms and comes to life in your faintest shadow. I knew from the moment I saw you that I'd never be struck so heavily again by—"

"What on earth are you on about?" Clarinda finally said. George slumped.

Harry and Ron burst into laughter, while Ernie smiled in amusement. George stood and turned to Harry, then handed the ring back to him.

"Joke's on you," he said, glancing between the chuckling Harry and Ron. "Just proves that no girl, not even a romance nutter like Clarinda, would say 'yes' to this ring."


	3. Elf Heads

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

"_Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau._"

The golden gate of the Ministry lift flapped open with a screech of metal hinges and Ron and Harry walked out onto the floor. The pair of Auror trainees strolled past the front desk and down the hallway, passing by the Office of Misinformation, and came to a stop at the end of the corridor.

Before them were three doors, all marked with a small golden eagle logo; the doors were labeled_ Beast,_ _Being,_ and _Spirit._

Harry opened the door to the 'Being' division of the department, revealing a large office similar to the Auror Headquarters, with its towering stacks of paperwork and parchment memos flying dartlike overhead. Harry and Ron set off down a nearby aisle, walking all the way to the far end of the room. Within the cubicles they passed by on their way, Ministry employees were eating lunch.

Ron was casting sideways glances at each one, licking his lips hungrily; at one point when they were passing the cubicle of a heavyset wizard who had prepared a plate of pork ribs, Ron came to a complete stop with his eyes locked on the food, and Harry had to drag him on by his ear.

When they reached the end of the aisle, near a whirring steam-powered brass coffee machine, they came upon a sight that was peculiar by Ministry standards: inside a cubicle with a nameplate that read _Hermione Granger_, there stood a small House Elf in black robes conversing with Hermione.

"Hello," said Harry from the doorway of the cubicle.

The House Elf turned to face Harry and Ron; with his bony frame shifting under his black robes, the elf resembled a mangled umbrella. Hermione stood from her chair, beaming.

"Harry, Ron, I'd like you to meet Baxter," she said. Baxter the House Elf extended a slender hand, which both Harry and Ron shook. "Baxter is the new House Elf representative at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"All right, brilliant," said Harry, feigning enthusiasm.

"'Bout time," added Ron in the same tone.

A few silent moments passed, where Hermione's smile widened and she shook with excitement. Ron was grinning too, but at Hermione.

"Isn't it wonderful!" bursted Hermione. Harry and Ron nodded obediently.

"Baxter is eager to participate in these Ministry affairs," said Baxter. "But the nice Ministry wizards insist on paying Baxter—"

"You're worth every Knut!" said Hermione sternly. "And they paid you at Hogwarts, so you ought to be used to it by now."

"You worked in the school kitchens?" asked Ron.

"Yes, Ronald Weasley, Baxter used to."

"_Thank you,_" Ron breathed. Harry caught Hermione's eye and grinned.

"We'd best get some food ready before Ron begins hallucinating," he said.

Harry and Ron reached into their robes in identical movements and withdrew brown paper bags. Hermione and Baxter appeared to have already been sharing a bowl of chicken salad.

"Here, have some," offered Hermione, spearing a strip of chicken with her fork and holding it in front of Ron's face.

"Kreacher made this, right?" he asked, eyeing the chicken suspiciously.

"I prepared it," said Hermione, her eyes narrowing. "Eat it."

Ron hesitantly took a bite and winced as he chewed, then gulped dramatically.

"It's e-excellent," he finally said, forcing a smile.

"Underage magic patrol is dreadful," grumbled Harry, his mouth half full of his bacon sandwich. "It's as if they don't trust us. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Robards has been reading Rita's books."

"It'll work out in the end," said Hermione. "I've done a bit of research. Auror training records are accessible by employees at my department, you know. Your trainee squad has attained the best arrest record of the lot, even better than some full Aurors."

"Really?" asked Ron. Hermione nodded. "Then why've we been treated like idiots?"

"You didn't honestly think you were doing poorly, did you?" said Hermione. "They're clearly testing you. I'm fairly certain that one of the techniques they use is simply to drag you through the dirt and see how you handle it. Who knows, it may keep you honest."

"Underage magic patrol doesn't keep you honest, it drives you mad," said Harry. "_Heroes_ shouldn't have to do such mundane work."

"Oh here he goes again," grumbled Ron.

"But what does Harry Potter mean by 'heroes?'" asked Baxter.

Harry started, having forgotten that the House Elf was present.

"I'm glad you should ask," said Harry with a smirk.

He reached into his robes and withdrew a jade colored book, then passed it to Baxter, who accepted it with an inquisitive expression. Baxter turned it over in his little hands to reveal the front cover, which contained a moving photograph of Harry's mugshot, taken from an _Undesirable No. 1_ poster. The book's title stretched above the picture in shining silver letters: _Hero: The Harry Potter Story._

"The title's sort of gone to his head," explained Hermione as the smiling Baxter returned the book to Harry.

"Heroes don't let things go to their heads," responded Harry with his chin up.

"Ever since you bought that thing you've been sounding more and more like Sir Cadogan by the day," said Ron.

"Baxter must be going to his work," said Baxter. "Baxter's lunch break is nearly at an end and he is grossly overpaid as it is, so, goodbye, Miss Hermione Granger, and friends."

"You're not overpaid!" called Hermione to Baxter's back as he shuffled out of the cubicle and disappeared down the aisle.

"Nice bloke," commented Ron.

Hermione smiled, then set her eyes on Harry's book.

"Who's the author of that book, might I ask?" she said, reaching for it. Harry pulled away quickly.

"His name is Norb W. Van Elder, he's a magical historian," said Harry.

"I'd like to have a look at it, please," said Hermione in a falsely sweet tone, attempting to swipe the book from Harry's grasp.

"No, you'll bin it or something—"

"Hand it over!"

"The binding is fragile!" protested Harry, holding the book high over his head, just enough so that Hermione couldn't reach.

As Harry was distracted by Hermione, who was jumping up on her toes to grab the book, Ron snuck up behind him and ripped the book from his grasp.

"Give that back!" growled Harry, swinging his arms at the book like a windmill as Ron kept him at arms' length with one hand pressed against his forehead.

"What makes a hero?" read Ron from the back of the book while Hermione restrained Harry. "Don't ask me, I'm just a summary. If you asked Harry Potter, he'd probably talk about Dumbledore or something—but what of Harry himself?"

Ron glanced up at Harry, smirking. Hermione was on the verge of laughter.

"English isn't his first language," said Harry defensively.

"In Muggle martial arts," Ron continued, "The progression of ones belt from white to black signifies the journey of a warrior, and how the warrior's clothes get really dirty over time. The same can be said about Harry Potter, as, with every passing year at Hogwarts, he became dirtier, and... _prattier_ with the weight of his upcoming battle with Lord Voldemort."

"You were so much _prattier_ back then," chuckled Hermione. Harry scowled.

"What did Harry Potter get up to in his years at Hogwarts? How did he defeat the Dark Lord? And what about his love life? All the answers, and more, are inside."

"It's better than it sounds," said Harry as Ron relinquished the book to him.

"I'm sure it's exquisite," Hermione simpered. "And to think, you've been bragging about this book since it hit shelves at Flourish and Blotts."

"Fine, have a laugh, while I remain ever vigilant—almost like a hero, I daresay."

"All right, well, I've got work piling up," said Hermione, glancing at her watch.

"Oh, by the way, after work, meet us at the Burrow, yeah? I'm bringing Teddy over," said Harry.

Hermione nodded, then gave Ron a peck on the lips before he and Harry set off into the maze of cubicles and headed back to their floor.

* * *

As the sun set behind the plains near the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, the hills and trees on the horizon cast slender shadows over the grass, and each cloud in the sky shone in the multicolored light of the sunset.

Above the forest, flying high as an airplane, a motorbike was soaring through the sky. Atop it, Harry Potter sat hunched over the handlebars, his messy black hair whipping wildly in the wind. Sitting in the sidecar of the bike, grasping the edges even though he was strapped tightly to his seat, was little Teddy Lupin; his eyes, currently a venomous green to match those of his godfather, were wide with fright under his little aviation goggles.

"Woo!" shouted Harry, grinning from ear to ear. He glanced at his godson, and said, "Isn't this great, Teddy?"

"Nooo!" answered Teddy, closing his eyes tightly as Harry lowered the bike into a nose dive.

"Look sharp, Teddy, all true Gryffindors are brave!"

"Molly!" called Teddy; the Burrow had just come into view as they soared over the hilltop memorial to Fred Weasley.

The Burrow was a tall, rickety house that swayed ominously in strong winds and looked as though it might collapse at any moment; the roof was checkered with missing shingles, and many planks of wood were nailed to its less sturdy points. Its structure was unbalanced and seemed to defy gravity, which aroused Harry's suspicion that it was supported chiefly by magic charms.

Harry descended towards the dirt trail that led to the Burrow's front yard. One wheel touched the ground and Teddy yelped, then the other landed and they continued down the wobbly path until they reached the towering Weasley home.

"Molly!" shouted Teddy as the bike skidded to a stop and Harry unfastened him from his seat.

"Not so loud," said Harry, lifting his godson up over a shoulder and walking to the front door.

The Burrow's crooked front door opened with a loud creak before Harry could reach it, revealing a plump witch with red hair and brown eyes that were glistening with adoration when she spotted Teddy.

"Why hello, Teddy!" she said, holding out her arms. "It's so good to see you—and you, of course, Harry."

Teddy attempted to escape Harry's grasp and climb into Molly's arms as soon as possible. Molly took Teddy in her arms and walked back into the house with Harry in tow. Dishes were being washed, sweaters knit, and floors swept of their own accord as though invisible people were tending to the chores of the house. Harry suspected he'd never get used to the warmth of the Burrow and its abundance of magic, having come from a home where 'magic' was considered a most vile forbidden word.

"Did you enjoy your flight?" asked Molly as they walked through the kitchen.

"No!" replied Teddy.

"He's not a fan of flying," explained Harry as they reached the living room and sat down in puffy armchairs; Ron and Hermione were present, sitting together cozily on the couch. "At this rate, I'll be buggered if he'll ever play Quidditch for Gryffindor."

"Isn't that a bit presumptuous?" asked Molly. "Perhaps he'll be in Hufflepuff, like his mother."

"Don't say that, mum!" gasped Ron. "Don't even think it!"

Teddy frowned, and his hair changed from bright turquoise to a gloomier teal.

"Oh, you don't mean that, Ron," said Molly. "There's nothing wrong with Hufflepuff, Teddy. Your mother was a great witch."

"Besides, I've found Helga Hufflepuff to be the most interesting of Hogwarts' founders," said Hermione.

"What, because she helped the House Elves?" scoffed Ron. "Gryffindor was a knight, and Teddy's a bloke so I think he'll agree that a knight who fights for justice is much more interesting than a House Elf activist with a fancy for badgers."

"I'm sorry, Ron, do forgive me for hoping that Teddy will grow up to be more than just a _boy_ with such brutish interests as swinging a sword around," shot Hermione.

"Swinging a sword around? Is that all Harry was doing when he slayed that Basilisk?"

"Sort of," said Harry meekly, but neither Ron nor Hermione seemed to hear.

Teddy observed their bickering with amusement, his eyes darting back and forth as though watching a tennis match, his hair alternating in color between bright, Ron orange and dark, Hermione brown.

"Don't get me wrong, Hufflepuff isn't as bad as Slytherin, but compared to us? Well, how should I put this..."

"I don't know, but I can tell you _where_ you should put it!" Hermione said as they were interrupted by a sound at the front door.

There were footsteps sounding through the kitchen, and Arthur Weasley, thin, balding, and kind-looking, stepped into the room.

"Home at last!" he said. "Oh, hello, Teddy!"

"Arthur!" said Teddy, his face lighting up.

"Hello, honey," said Molly. "How was your day?"

"I got the book you wanted," replied Arthur, withdrawing a large blue book from inside his robes and handing it to his wife.

"Wonderful!" said Molly. "It's a spellbook," she then explained to the guests.

She cracked the tome open over her lap and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Teddy leaned in to see it; it was a wide book with many illustrations of wand movements and pronunciation keys for magical incantations.

"Lockhart?" asked Harry.

"No, it's a spellmaker, Walt Lesae," said Molly fondly. Arthur rolled his eyes. "He's ever so handy with a wand."

Molly held up the book to display the front cover, whence a strong-jawed man with a trimmed beard and short, neatly-combed black hair stared out at them, smiling toothily.

"Molly," said Harry, clearing his throat. "And Arthur... I've got something to ask you, and it's important."

"What is it, Harry?" asked Arthur as he took a seat next to Molly and Teddy.

"It's, well, I wanted to know—I mean, I thought I should ask—or at least let you know..."

Ron and Hermione gave Harry an encouraging nudge as they observed his nervous jittering.

"I'm asking for your permission to marry Ginny," blurted Harry.

"Oho!" said Arthur, his eyebrows shooting upwards. Molly merely sat still.

"It's—I've got a ring—"

"No you don't," said Ron.

"I'll get a ring," corrected Harry. "Tomorrow, and I'm going to ask her soon—that is, if you're all right with it."

"Well, I think we're certainly all right with it—er..." Arthur broke off as he caught the look on Molly's face.

"You are quite young, Harry, the both of you," she said.

"You and Dad were young when you tied the knot," countered Ron. "Younger than Harry, in fact—"

"Thank you, Ron," said Molly quickly. "Harry, dear, you know I love you."

"Love you too," replied Harry before Molly could continue; her expression softened.

"I'm just worried that you're rushing into things," explained Molly. "If it's to do with love, people tend not to think things through."

"I've thought it through, and I'm certain."

"Then you have my blessing." Molly smiled, and Arthur nodded beside her.

"Brilliant!" said Harry. "Just, don't tell anyone, please. I can't wait to surprise her."

"Marry Ginny!" said Teddy. Harry's jaw dropped.

"Oh, bugger..." Harry gulped. "Teddy, please don't say that."

Teddy's eyes gleamed mischievously, and Harry sighed.

"Teddy, that's, er, a very bad word," said Hermione, trying to look stern. "Cursed, in fact, best not to say it."

"It can't be helped now, I'm afraid," said Molly, shaking her head.

"Good thing Ginny's out at an away game against the Kestrels," said Ron. "You'll just have to get to her before he does," he added, nodding to Teddy.

"Regardless, this is great," said Harry as he rose to his feet. "Time to celebrate; how about the Leaky?"

Ron and Hermione nodded their agreement and stood as well.

"You behave," commanded Harry to Teddy as he reached down and ruffled Teddy's turquoise hair. "If he gives you any trouble, Molly, just threaten to put him on a broom."

Molly giggled at Teddy's horrified expression and bade Harry, Ron, and Hermione goodbye as the trio stepped out through the front door and Disapparated together with a loud _*crack*_ that echoed through the house.

A moment later, there was a faint _*pop*_, and the front door opened again. Hermione had returned, looking determined.

"Mrs. Weasley," she said, before clearing her throat.

"Oh, you can call me Molly, dear."

"I've actually come to ask you something as well, something rather embarrassing, in fact."

"Oh?" Molly raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to ask permission to propose to my son, then?"

"No," said Hermione quickly. "That would be a silly thing to do, wouldn't it? I mean, not that I wouldn't want to, of course, but if he wants to, then he's the one who's meant to propose—"

"Then what is it?"

"I want you to teach me how to cook," said Hermione, wringing her hands together. "Not right now, of course—I'm not _too_ bad, either, so it won't be difficult to teach me, I assure you."

"I doubt it'd be difficult to teach you anything," said Molly. "All right, then. I can teach you a few recipes."

* * *

_*pop*_

Hermione appeared out of thin air at the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley; her mastery of Apparition had advanced such that she materialized mid-step, already walking forward, without breaking her stride. She pulled open the door to the Leaky Cauldron and stepped inside.

The pub was bustling with the nightlife of Diagon Alley; Tom the toothless barman was scrubbing thick glass mugs idly with a rag as he chatted with witches and wizards sitting on stools at the bar. Chatter could be heard in every corner of the room, as patrons of the pub conversed, many with slurred words, and, occupied by the Leaky Cauldron's oldest and most frequent customers, the shadowy booths in the back of the room emitted a haze of blue pipesmoke.

Hermione weaved through the crowd until she spotted Harry and Ron sitting at a table next to a record player with an overlarge horn that was playing songs from Celestina Warbeck's best-selling album _You Stole My Cauldron But You Can't Have My Heart_; Harry and Ron were sitting across from their Auror squadmate Ernie Macmillan.

"Sherman Roque's received two warnings for Underage Magic so far," Harry was saying. Ron displayed an eager grin, clearly hoping for a third strike.

"There you are," said Hermione. She nodded to Ernie, and said, "Hello, Ernie. Make room, won't you?"

"Hi," said Ernie drowsily as he budged over and Hermione sat down.

"Where were you?" asked Ron. "We've ordered already."

"I stayed behind to ask your mother something," said Hermione. "Thanks for waiting, by the way!"

"I didn't know how long you'd be," said Ron.

"Actually," Harry interjected, "I believe your exact words were 'maybe she's splinched herself or something, we'll stop by St. Mungo's later and look for her, but if I don't have a munch soon, my head's going to cave in.'"

"What'd you ask my mum?" said Ron.

"For advice on cooking, if you must know," said Hermione briskly. Ron eyed her appraisingly.

"It's odd, isn't it?" he said, bemused. "You can brew a proper Wolfsbane potion as well as anyone, but you can't even cook chicken and rice."

"No stranger than you essentially being a grandmaster at chess, yet still unable to wrap your head around the intricacies of using the Floo network."

"I'm a complex man," reasoned Ron. "And it's really only the Ministry fireplaces that give me trouble."

"Ah, Neville's here," said Harry with a nod towards the bar, where Neville Longbottom was chatting with Tom. Ernie sighed and downed his drink.

"Hello, Neville!" said Hermione pleasantly as Neville passed by.

"Oh, hullo, Hermione," he said. "Alright, Harry? Ron?"

"Hey, Nev, what's the forecast?" said Harry. He and Ron were on the verge of laughter as Neville's eyes narrowed.

"What're you up to?" asked Hermione.

"Looking for Hannah," Neville replied. "Tom said it's her day off, so I'm headed for her apartment now."

"You know," said Ron. "You two make a great couple—it's like the _perfect storm._"

Harry and Ron sniggered Peeveslike in unison, and even Hermione smirked.

"Well then, it was nice seeing you," grumbled Neville as he walked out of the pub, his head drooping low.

"Poor guy," mused Hermione, watching Neville leave.

"He'll be fine," Harry assured her. "He's just a bit... _under the weather_. HA!"


	4. Morning Warning

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

"You lose again," said Ron, smirking at Harry as he inspected the chessboard between them.

The month was at an end and the night of the full moon was near. Accordingly, Ron's hair had darkened from coppery orange to bloodred, his teeth had grown slimy, his gums black with pink splotches like those of a dog.

"That I do," sighed Harry. "I'm beginning to think chess is stupid. Why is the knight a horse?"

"Because you lose," Ron stated as he began to rearrange the chessmen back to their starting positions. One of the pieces batted his hand away with a tiny stone shield, shouting grumpily, "I can do it myself!"

"You know what," said Harry, standing up. "Who needs chess? I'm going to go find a better use for my time, like marrying your sister."

Sirius Black tutted from his portrait on the wall. Ron and Harry were in the living room of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and had been playing wizard's chess at a small black table by the window. Harry walked to the kitchen and Ron followed, ignoring the fervent protests of the chess pieces; Crookshanks had hopped onto the table and was batting a paw at them.

"Oh, you're funny," said Ron. "Now you've told my mum about it, you'd better do it soon. If you don't grasp the nettle we'll have to start placing a Silencing Charm on Teddy whenever Ginny's in the room."

"I'm still considering the best way to go about it," said Harry defensively. "I want everything to be perfect, that's all. I've got to consider the proposal, the wedding, the honeymoon—"

"Might want to discuss that last one with Hermione instead," said Ron in a tone of warning. Harry gave an apologetic smile and went to retrieve a silver kettle that was hanging on the wall. "Mate, you _are_ going to do this, aren't you?"

"What?" Harry's eyebrows scrunched in annoyance. "Yes, of course. What a ridiculous question."

"Right, because if you're having second thoughts, I don't want you proposing. Understood?"

"I'm not having second thoughts—stop looking at me like that!" Harry shouted. "If I'm having second thoughts, it's not about my feelings. It's just that I'm starting to think I jumped the gun."

"The what?"

"You _know_ what a bloody gun is. You just like to play wizard ignorance to be infuriating."

"I do it sometimes for thrills. I also know how to say 'electricity,' but don't tell Hermione I said that."

"Anyway, I just think I might be going a bit fast. Not for me—I'm ready for something that at least resembles settling down—but for her. She's off on Quidditch trips and who knows how long she'll be playing, or which team she'll be playing for in the future. From her standpoint, it seems ridiculous to say yes to me. Every time I think about proposing, I'm afraid she'll laugh or something."

Ron thought for a moment, then said, "What happens if she says no?"

"I don't know. Things remain the same, I'd presume."

"Hey, Harry, what about Godric's Hollow?"

"Please tell me that's you changing the subject."

"It's, er, an emotional place, and she'll be sure to say yes."

"I'm not trying to pity her into marrying me," said Harry as he put the kettle over the stove. He then grimaced, and said, "I never want to see Godric's Hollow again."

"Ah, you've seen worse, I'd wager," said Ron, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"I'm sure you've tasted worse than Hermione's sugar-free biscuits, but you still feed them to Pig whenever she gives you one..."

"They're good for you," said a voice from the kitchen door.

Harry and Ron turned around to find Hermione standing in the doorway with a Daily Prophet newspaper clutched in her hand.

"Not for our taste buds," reasoned Harry.

"That's how it tends to work—healthy or tasty, but never both—although, according to _Uncommon Taste__, _there are many exceptions to that rule. I'll show you tonight," said Hermione. "Anyway, haven't you read the Prophet today?"

"Of course not," said Ron. "What, haven't you tickled a sleeping dragon today?"

"Fair point, but there's been a major robbery," continued Hermione. "Borgin and Burke's, last night."

"Well, if anyone deserved it," began Harry as Hermione dropped the paper on the kitchen table, displaying the front page headline _Thousands in Goods Stolen in Diagon Alley Heist_.

"This is serious, though," she said, struggling not to smile. "They've been completely cleaned out!"

"The place needed a good cleaning anyway "

"But who could have done it?"

Harry placed three cream colored teacups on the table and poured tea in them from a matching teapot, and his friends began sipping.

"And why would they want to?" added Ron.

"You are an _Auror_, Ron," said Hermione. "You should be more interested in this!"

"We're against it with you," assured Ron. "But all I'm interested in right now is when the Chocolate Frog embargo is being lifted."

"Ron," said Hermione, shaking her head amusedly. "Why don't you just buy one yourself and eat it while I'm not looking?"

"Out of the purity of my heart?"

"There's nothing pure about letting me dictate whether or not you can eat chocolate. Harry, what do you think?" Hermione asked, sliding the newspaper over to Harry's side of the table.

"Sounds like a good case, but we're on Underage Magic duty, don't you remember?"

"You could request it, and they'd like it if you showed initiative. Let's not forget how you solved that Moja case."

"Don't worry, the top brass won't forget that any time soon. Left a right mess for them to clean up. Every time we try to show initiative, we get in trouble," countered Ron.

"_Mess?_ Have you not paid attention to current events? Honestly, even Luna's aware of our touchy situation with the goblins. In the aftermath of the war—particularly after our break-in at Gringotts—we're skating on _very_ thin ice. Goblins in the past have always had a short diplomatic tether, and Kingsley isn't one to suffer intimidation—"

"Bastard!" exclaimed Harry suddenly. He was now hidden behind the unfolded newspaper and reading an article on the second page. "Every time Ginny's photographed next to someone, the bastarding Daily Prophet hints that she's dating the bastard!"

"You learn to live with it," said Ron sagely.

"Ginny's the real victim here; it's your fault for caring about anything printed in this rubbish paper," said Hermione. "Can we return to the topic at hand?"

"Tell you what, Hermione," said Harry through clenched teeth as he refolded the paper recklessly and tossed it back on the table. "We'll stop by Borgin and Burke's today and have a mosey around. We're headed to Diagon Alley anyway, ring shopping, which is a colossal lark as I've already got a fine ring—I'm still buying a new one, Ron, calm down."

"Great," she replied, smiling. She then stood and reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, pentagonal blue box with gold lettering that read _Chocolate Frog_ in a medieval-style font, and lobbed the box to Ron, who caught it with a wide grin. "I can't come, I'm going to the Burrow for my first cooking lesson."

"Good luck," managed Ron through a mouthful of chocolate.

* * *

At midday, Diagon Alley was bustling with life, with crowds of people carrying heavy magical tomes out of Flourish and Blott's, wearing colorful new robes from Madam Malkin's, and testing brooms purchased at Quality Quidditch Supplies, all meshing together to form a sea of witches and wizards under the bright white sky.

Street merchants had set up at every storefront, displaying their best goods in the form of jars of obscure potion ingredients, caged owls, and various food items; one such butcher was directing bystanders to his meat stand with the use of a big grey cleaver.

Ron and Harry entered the main road coming from the Leaky Cauldron, and nearly every head in the crowd around them turned as they passed. People were staring, mumbling, and nudging their companions to alert them of the famous Harry Potter's presence.

Harry kept his head down, trying his best to ignore the attention of the crowd, and Ron was more interested in various foodstuffs at a nearby stand. He was so distracted by a merchant's basket of glowing golden bananas that he nearly tripped over the knee of a hooded wizard sitting on the pearly white stoop of Gringotts Bank.

"Ugh, what d'you reckon those taste like?" Ron asked, grimacing at a tray that contained several blackened whole lizards on skewers.

"Feeling adventurous, are you?" asked Harry dully.

"Harry Potter!" shrieked a high voice that was too loud for Harry to ignore.

When Harry and Ron turned around, they were face-to-face with a small group of teenage girls. The tallest and most excited one, which Harry supposed was their leader, held out her copy of _Hero: The Harry Potter Story_ in one hand and a white feather quill in the other.

"Hello..." said Harry awkwardly.

"I think she wants you to sign it," said Ron.

Harry nodded and took the girl's book and quill, then opened it and scribbled his name on the back of the cover.

"Mr. Potter, you are a GOD!" squealed one of the girls. Ron burst into laughter.

"No, not really," said Harry, his cheeks pink. "There you are, one autographed book."

Harry bade the girls goodbye and continued down the road at an increased speed, along with the sniggering Ron.

"_We love you, Harry!_"

"_Look, it's Harry and Ron!_"

"_Mr. Potter, if I could just have a word with you for the Daily Prophet?_"

"Yeah, I've got one," said Ron. "_Rubbish_."

"We should visit Borgin and Burke's first," said Harry. "I don't want to be caught in Knockturn Alley with an expensive ring in my pocket."

"Are you sure you want to go?" asked Ron. "Last time we stuck our necks out when we didn't have to—"

"You were, ahem, _rewarded_ by Hermione."

Ron paused in thought for a moment, then grinned and said, "Let's do it."

Harry and Ron ventured down a side road and ended up in Knockturn Alley after a few more turns. The atmosphere was in complete contrast with that of Diagon Alley, with its absence of street merchants, enchantments, and even the sunlight that brightened Diagon Alley seemed dim over Knockturn Alley's grimy buildings and dirty streets.

"I'm starting to remember the smell," said Harry as they passed a witch in black robes with a greatly hunched spine and a face scattered with warts.

"Smells like Crabbe and Goyle after a Quidditch game," said Ron, scrunching up his nose.

"Here," said Harry as they arrived in front of a shop at the center of the alley.

Harry had only recognized Borgin and Burke's from memory of the surrounding shops; it was boarded up, and the sign had been taken down. There was an enchanted message etched on the door that read 'closing.'

"A nice silver lining," said Ron.

Harry banged his fist against the door a few times. There was some rustling and footsteps from inside the shop and Mr. Borgin opened the door. As soon as he saw Harry, his beady eyes grew wide and he slammed the door shut.

"Ministry!" shouted Harry, knocking on the door again. There was no answer.

"Not like he'd want the Ministry snooping around anyway,," said Ron. "They'd have him bang to rights just telling them all the Dark artifacts he's missing."

"Hermione was right, it's been completely emptied," said Harry as they made their way back to Diagon Alley. "This case does appear to have... _uneck_ qualities."

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing, that's just how Borgin would have said it."

"Right, well, Gringotts is our first stop then, isn't it?"

Harry and Ron set off down the main road of Diagon Alley, wading through the crowd on their way to Gringotts Bank, which stood at the end of the street, towering and heavenly white.

"Dung's just done his time, hasn't he?" said Ron. "Might want to keep an eye on him."

"D'you really think Dung would do this?" Harry scoffed.

"Well, it's precisely his M.O., right?"

"Nah, these days, Dark artifacts are a dying market. If anything, he'd clean out the register and have done with it. Removing every item in the store must have taken a lot of time and patience, seeing as the whole lot of Borgin's products are either poisoned or cursed."

"But then who would?" wondered Ron as they arrived at the front steps of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

Together, Harry and Ron pushed through the bank's burnished bronze doors and found themselves in its vast and splendid marble hall. Two long mahogany counters on either side stretched all the way to the end of the hall, and seated a hundred Gringotts Goblins, each with their own small golden lamp and quill and ink in their workspace.

Harry and Ron approached the counter; it was polished to such a rich sheen that the young Aurors could see their reflections in the wood. Behind the counter, two goblins in red uniforms were huddled together in hushed conversation.

"He's been loitering around here ever since," one of them said. "He needs to be taken care of."

"You think the loiterer is planning something?" asked the other.

"I'm sure of it."

Then the two Goblins noticed Harry and Ron nearby and walked further along until they were out of earshot. Harry and Ron looked at each other for a moment, then Harry shrugged and turned to the nearest free Goblin behind the counter.

"I've come to withdraw from my vault," he said.

"Mr. Potter," said the goblin without hiding the edge in his tone. "Before we proceed I must inform you that you have been placed on our list."

"What list?"

"Our list of individuals who are not allowed into the vaults without first depositing all wands and magical items at the security desk."

"Not a chance!" said Ron, but Harry hushed him.

"That's fine," he said.

"Your key?" asked the goblin.

Harry stuck his hand in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a tiny golden key.

"Very well," said the goblin, inspecting it closely. He then turned, and called, "Krag! _Harry Potter_ would like to be shown to his vault!"

Krag, another goblin, shuffled past Harry and Ron and escorted them to the security desk, where they emptied their pockets and relinquished their wands to the guard. Krag then took them to one of the hall's many doors. Beyond the door was a narrow stone passageway that led down a long tunnel, grungy and dark like a mine, with railway tracks on the ground and rows of flickering torches on the walls.

Krag whistled and a small mine cart was summoned to them, rolling towards them with squealing iron wheels. Harry, Ron, and Krag climbed into the cramped cart and set off down through the underground tunnels of Gringotts at high speed.

They zoomed past many twisting passages and forks, with the cart steering itself as Krag held onto the sides, looking rather bored. They passed by an underground lake, with drops of water falling from the ceiling and rippling its black surface, and came to a screeching stop beside a small door built into the stone wall.

Krag unlocked the door, and a gust of green smoke came billowing out. Harry and Ron stepped through the smoke and into the Potter vault.

As Harry took several gold Galleons from his stash, Ron wandered about the vault, inspecting various items that had gathered a lot of dust.

"Are these your father's glasses?" he asked, holding up a pair of circular spectacles. Harry nodded from across the room. "Do they work on your eyes?"

"I haven't tried them," said Harry. "I haven't really rummaged through all this stuff."

"That's odd, I'd have figured that's the first thing you'd do."

"All sorted," said Harry, standing up with a jingle of coins.

"Hey, an Every Flavor Bean," said Ron. "Eugh, toenails—no, wait, it's coffee—probably been in here too long."

"Are you quite finished?" mused Harry.

"Blimey!" Ron turned to Harry and held up a small, sparkly object. "It's a ring, Harry!"

"What?" Harry hurried over to Ron and took the ring in his hand. "So it is... but whose?"

"Your mum's, obviously."

"They'd have buried her with her ring, wouldn't they?"

"With her wedding ring, perhaps, but that's the other one, yeah?"

"They don't wear both?" Ron shrugged, and Harry huffed with indignation. "They don't even wear both, and we're expected to buy them two?"

"Hermione said they wear both, traditionally, but some Muggle women only wear the wedding ring—or is it the other way around?"

"My mum was Muggleborn, after all. So I should buy one like this. Thanks, dad."

"Why don't you just use that one?" suggested Ron. Harry's grin faded.

"Use this one? I don't know, Ron..."

"I do." Ron's tone was wise. "Women love that sentimental mush. She'll be _touched_, Harry, and in the only way I want you touching her, too."

* * *

Though it was a rare sunny London afternoon, Sherman Roque was only able to enjoy the weather through the window of his bedroom; he'd been grounded for the remainder of the summer as punishment for his back-to-back Underage Magic violations.

The first warning came by owl during the second month of summer, for Roque's attempt at Transfiguring his square wooden table into a big round one, at which he and his friends, the Battle-Axe Bandits, could then conduct their roundtables.

When the letter began explaining this to Roque's parents in Mafalda Hopkirk's pleasant voice, the frustrated young Hufflepuff set fire to the parchment with a wave of his wand, and the second warning arrived later the very same day.

After three weeks banished to his room, Roque was allowed a visitor, Elena, whom his mother remarked was a "good influence." Despite his reluctance to be influenced positively, Roque invited her to spend the night, and there they sat the following morning, sitting at the square table next to Roque's bed.

The walls of Roque's room were the dullest taupe; Roque had surmised long ago that anything more interesting might make his frequent groundings too enjoyable. The white carpeted floor was cluttered with plastic figurines, trivia cards, and world maps from the many board games Roque and Elena had gone through the previous night.

"Truth," said Roque, crossing his arms and looking confident.

"That's not fair," protested Elena. "You're impossible to embarrass."

"So?"

"So what's the point of asking you a question then?"

"Search me..."

"When someone picks 'truth,' you ask them something that they don't want to answer, like who they fancy, but of course you'd just say" — Elena stuck her nose in the air and crossed her arms, imitating Roque — "Girls are a distraction to a Bandit like me."

"I didn't invent this insolent game, you know," snapped Roque. "Just ask your question."

"Fine," said Elena. She set her eyes on the band aid over the bridge of Roque's nose, and asked, "Why do you wear a plaster over your nose?"

"I don't know, I just like it."

"Are you being entirely truthful?" Elena smirked. "Remember, you're bound by the rules of the game to speak only the truth."

"Well, there is a superhero I quite like," admitted Roque. Elena's smirk grew. "Captain Commander, along with his sidekick, Lieutenant Deputy. He wears a plaster over his nose when he fights crime so that no one recognizes him."

"And that's meant to work?" asked Elena, incredulous. "A little bandage over your face and you're well disguised?"

"He wears a hat, too." Roque ignored Elena's giggle.

"I don't think you should wear it anymore. It leaves a strange mark on your face," said Elena sincerely.

"Oh, stop being such a good influence."

"It's also a waste of bandages—AH!" Elena jumped back and yelped, her auburn hair flapping wildly.

Roque turned around and saw a dark figure lurking outside his second-story window. The window was pulled open, revealing the shaggy black hair and blue eyes of Adrian Starr, a fellow Bandit.

"Good morning, Blackboot," said Roque, grinning.

"'Ello," Blackboot said as he climbed into the room. "Hey, what's Ellie doing here?"

"What am I—what are _you_ doing here?" demanded Elena. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Right, of course, I'll just go tell Munky _not_ to scale the ivy and sneak in here behind me because it's against the bloody rules, and Helga forbid we ever defy _the rules._"

"Fine, just know that I'm not responsible, Roque, if you get in more trouble for this."

"School year's almost here anyway," reasoned Roque. "What can they do?"

"Hi, Roque," said a voice from the window. A second, much taller visitor had climbed into Roque's bedroom. "Sorry, but I think I left a footprint on the side of your house."

"Not for nothing, though," said Blackboot. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded page of parchment. "Look at this letter, it's from McGonagall."

Roque took the parchment and unfolded it. It was a short letter written in green ink.

"It's mostly just the book list, and the Hogsmeade permission form, but look at the PS," suggested Blackboot.

Roque skipped to the bottom of the page and read it aloud: "_PS. I feel I should warn you that you, along with Mr. Roque and Mr. Beech, will be met with expulsion should you violate any more school rules._"

"I've got one too," said Munky.

"Why isn't Ellie mentioned?" asked Blackboot.

"Do you know, it was you who said I'm only kept around because I appear innocent," said Elena.

"Was only joking..."

"What're we going to do?" asked Munky. He, Elena, and Blackboot looked at Roque expectantly.

"We'll have to ease up," said Roque. "We can't get expelled, of course, my parents would skin me alive—that is if Filch doesn't beat them to it—and I'm also a bit fed up with Sean and his smug little looks since last year."

"You want to win the House Cup, then?"

"Yes, but more importantly, I want Slytherin not to win, don't you?" The Bandits nodded eagerly. "Gryffindor won't manage it, not with Con Castle around, and Ravenclaw was even worse than us last year."

"Then it'll be us," said Munky. "All right, I'm up for it."

"I'm not," said Blackboot, pouting. "Why don't we just change our name to the Goody-Two-Shoes while we're at it?"

"It's the best option we've got," said Elena, attempting to sound resigned. "Besides, Munky's agreed, so it's three to one in favor of it."

"Oh, come on, Munky," pleaded Blackboot. Munky rubbed his chin in thought.

"No, it's already been decided," said Roque.

"No it hasn't!"

"Yes it has, by me," said Roque. "This is not a democracy. It is a Roquetatorship."

"Fine." Blackboot held out his hand, and his fellow Bandits held out theirs together and chanted, in varying levels of enthusiasm, "On to the House Cup!"

* * *

Ron Weasley had been attacked in his sleep by a Dementor. He was sure of it, because he had shivered himself awake in complete darkness, freezing from head to toe. It was usual for Ron to feel weakened and sapped of energy after one of his transformations, but never too cold to move. It was like his muscles had been shut off.

Ron's chest was particularly icy, as if a ghost had been cuddling with him, and he felt that he had been sleeping face-down, hugging a big block of ice. His senses returning to him, Ron realized that it was actually a frozen slab of meat. He couldn't see it, as his murky eyes still only saw in grayscale and none too sharply, but it smelled delicious.

With great difficulty, Ron rolled off of the block of meat and landed on a wooden floor. He now knew where he had fallen asleep: the magically chilled pantry that the residents of number twelve, Grimmauld Place used as a refrigerator.

Feeling more awake, Ron lifted himself to his feet with a heavy sigh, seeing his breath puff into the air like steam. He pushed through the pantry door and stepped out into the kitchen; when he closed the door, he saw that the edges of the chunk of frozen meat had been gnawed on.

Ron walked over to the sink and cranked the hot water tap all the way, then leaned into the sink and began guzzling warm water directly from the tap, smiling as he felt the heat pour into his chest.

When he was done, Ron grabbed one of Hermione's sugar-free biscuits for a snack and left the kitchen. Nibbling unsatisfactorily on the tasteless treat, Ron entered the living room, eyeing its cardinal-and-gold wallpaper, red Gryffindor tapestries, soft armchairs, and two portraits framed in black wood, one labeled _Sirius Black_, and the other _Phineas Nigellus Black_.

Ron approached the coffee table in front of the couch, and, on it, he spotted what appeared to be a large, disheveled feather-duster that had fallen victim to Crookshanks' claws.

"Morning, Errol," said Ron, sitting at the couch and prodding the Weasley family owl. "You alive?"

Errol stirred, then shuffled to his talons. Ron offered the elderly owl the rest of his biscuit, and Errol accepted it, giving Ron an affectionate nip on the knuckle before flying off into the other room.

Moments after Errol had flown out of sight, there was a loud _CRASH_ and the sound of several piano keys being jammed at once. Ron hurried to the other room to see Errol rising to his feet and soaring through the open window, playing a few more notes on the piano as he took off.

Shaking his head with a wistful smile, Ron plopped back onto the couch and started on the post Errol had left on the coffee table. The first was a small white scroll of parchment, rolled up and sealed with a golden _W_ sticker. When Ron unrolled it, two little green pellets fell out onto the table. Careful not to touch them, Ron examined the scroll, and it read:

_Hey there, would you (be you Harry, Ginny, or Hermione) kindly test these new Dye Drops on Ron's hair? Just slip them in his drink and see what happens. Of course, I'm trusting that Ickle Ronnie isn't reading the morning post, as I assume the poor lad only wakes up once he whiffs breakfast being made. Thanks._

_Mean-spiritedly,_

_George_

"Nice try," Ron mumbled, pocketing the Dye Drops and picking up the second letter. He immediately recognized Rubeus Hagrid's untidy scrawl.

_Dear Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny_

_I've got something to show you. Please stop by my house as soon as you can for tea, just like old times, and I'll introduce you to an old friend!_

_— Hagrid  
_

"If it's Norberta, I'm telling McGonagall," said Ron.

The last letter was an envelope addressed to Hermione. Ron's groggy eyes narrowed in an instant.

"_Krum,_" he growled.

With covert glances left and right, Ron hunched down over the envelope and began gently prying it open, careful not to tear its edges. He moved so slowly that he could see the strands of the adhesive coming apart. Every little sound of number twelve, Grimmauld Place was amplified; the drip of the tap in the kitchen, Crookshanks' footsteps on the stairs, and the whooshing of passing cars on the road outside.

From his portrait, a grinning Sirius Black mimicked the sound of Ron's heartbeat: "_Bumbum, bumbum, bumbum!_"

"Shut it, Sirius," hissed Ron.

At last, the envelope was opened, and with no cosmetic damage to the seal. Ron had just reached inside, when—

"That was not addressed to you."

"AH!" Ron yelped and jolted to his feet. Kreacher the House Elf had appeared in the doorway of the living room, hobbling towards Ron.

"Kreacher!" said Ron, his eyes wide. "Er, hello, g-good morning "

"Yes, Kreacher, old bean, fine day isn't it?" sniggered Sirius.

"I'll just put this back," said Ron. Kreacher narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Ron resealed the envelope and awkwardly shuffled towards the stairs, but stopped dead in the hallway when he encountered a yawning Hermione.

"Good morning, Ron, how are you feeling?"

"I, er, great," stammered Ron. "Feeling good."

"Are you sure?" Hermione tilted her head.

"Of course." Ron smiled, but then realized his teeth were dark and slimy at the moment, and closed his mouth. "Well, I—never feeling too good after the full moon, of course—oh, and there's post for you. I'm going back to bed."

"Who from?" asked Hermione with a knowing look.

"Viktor Krum," said Ron, shrugging casually.

"Did you read it?"

"No, of course not." Ron cleared his throat, and Hermione smirked. "I didn't!"

Hermione looked to Sirius, who nodded.

"He was going to," he added. "But you know me, I put a stop to it straight away."

Kreacher shook his head, then walked off to the kitchen, mumbling. Hermione strode over to the table and examined the letter while Ron observed from the doorway.

"Ah," she said. "Look at this, Ron."

Ron sheepishly approached, and Hermione handed him a photograph; in it, Viktor Krum, skinny and birdlike, was standing at an altar in fine dress robes next to a short blonde woman in a long white gown. Ron smiled approvingly and returned the picture to Hermione, then started walking upstairs.

"By the way, the only reason I'm not hexing you to oblivion is because it's fuzzy day," mentioned Hermione, sounding amused.

Ron pumped his fist in a stealthy celebration as he walked up the stairs. By the time he reached the second floor, he felt too cheerful to sleep, and when he felt his stomach growling he decided to pay Harry and Ginny a visit.

Soon, Ron was standing at the door of the room Harry shared with Ginny. He rapped his knuckles gently on the door, and heard his sister's sleepy response.

"Yes?"

"I'm hungry."

"Then eat something." Ron knew from Ginny's tone that she thought the matter to be sorted.

"I will once you cook it."

"Ha, like that's going to happen!"

"Actually," spoke a second voice from within the room, that of Harry. "I'd like a spot of breakfast as well."

"Hush."

Ron thought for a moment, then said, "I just don't have the strength, you know, after last night..."

The door opened suddenly, and Ginny stood before Ron in her pyjamas, looking skeptical. Ron pouted theatrically.

"Fine." Ginny kissed her brother on the cheek and walked down the hall towards the bathroom.

"Have you asked her yet?" Ron whispered to Harry, who was groping around his bedside table in search of his glasses.

"No, not yet," said Harry between yawns as he stood.

"Hagrid wants us over at his house for tea, by the way—says he's got something to show us."

"Something mad and hairy?"

"An 'old friend,' apparently."

"If it's Fluffy, I'm telling McGonagall." Harry stopped for a second, then grinned widely. "That's it!"

"What's it?"

"I'll do it on the train!"

"What?"

"Ginny!"

"Oi, I don't like to think about you doing my sister anywhere, let alone—"

"No, you prat, I'll _ask her on the train._"

"What train?"

"Today is September the first, isn't it?"

Ron frowned. "You want to go on the Hogwarts Express?"

"Of course, why didn't I think of it before?" Harry patted Ron's shoulder, beaming. "I'm a married man, mate."

"But why?"

"It'll be perfect, just think of all the memories we've had "

"_We've_ had, you and I, but not Ginny. She didn't usually ride with us, remember?"

"Well I suppose you're right, but it'd definitely get her in the mood, and then I can do it at Hogwarts, maybe—maybe under the Beech tree or something. Merlin knows how many hours we spent—er, well, it's just a good idea."

"So, when I propose to Hermione, I'd best drag her all the way to the school library then."

"Now you're getting it!"


	5. Northern Hemispheres

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

"Bugger the rules, I've got green hair!" barked George, red in the face; under his leaf-green hair, he looked like an angry strawberry. "I can't even show my face in the Three Broomsticks looking like this!"

"Why d-don't you just fix it?" managed Angelina between chuckles. "Take your wand to it, set it right—"

"Dye Drops have spellbinding enchantments; they can't be fixed by magic. That's the beauty of them, or, in this case, the horror—and stop your laughing!"

"You know, when that tourist called you a _limey_ the other night—"

"Shut it!"

George paced back and forth in front of the register at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' Hogsmeade branch. Angelina was behind the counter, observing him with a simper.

"Ron will pay for this," George declared. "It's humiliating enough that he actually hoodwinked me into drinking something that had been tampered with. Moody's hip flask suddenly doesn't seem so crazy, now does it?"

"How'd he trick you?"

"I should have seen right through it. He came bursting into the shop, wearing a green wig, looking furious—"

"Oh, he's quite clever when he wants to be, isn't he?"

George offered a grunt of agreement, then pressed on: "Then Hermione walked in, saying she'd bought ice cream to cheer Ron up, and offered me a cup..."

"Oh dear."

"Ron played his part well, I must admit—said I didn't deserve ice cream after what I'd done—'course, I told him to bugger off and ate the lot myself."

"In any case, I don't think you should lay a single curse on Ron for this."

George stopped pacing and fixed Angelina with a menacing glare that went unnoticed as she was still staring at his hair. Though George's hair had turned green, it had retained its metallic sheen when he stepped into the sunlight that slanted down from the front window of the shop.

"And why the Bloody Baron shouldn't I curse him?" he demanded. "I have been betrayed, belittled, and... _be-fucked-over_ for the last time!"

"But you tried to curse him in the first place!"

"That was a legitimate magical experiment." Angelina raised her eyebrows, and George nodded confidently. "I wanted to see if he'd become a green wolf, but apparently Errol lost his way en route and didn't deliver it until today."

"Can't you retire that poor bird?"

"Believe me, I've advocated it in the past, but Mum's in denial. Says he's perfectly fit to fly." George sighed. "I reckon she just doesn't want to buy a new one."

"So what brings you here, anyway?" asked Angelina.

"Just visiting my favorite employee, of course!"

"Is that all?"

"No, not really, I'm here to cast an Anti-Traction Charm on the roof." Angelina knitted her eyebrows confusedly, and George explained, "I built that landing pad up there for the Forge, but as that's on hold for now, it'll only tempt burglars to break in from the top. After what happened at Borgin and Burke's—not that I consider it anything less than a benchmark in the pantheon of justice—it's best to be safe."

"Oh." Angelina frowned. "I thought I'd be getting some help, as it's the start of the school year."

"No, I don't expect you'll need it today. It's Hogsmeade weekends you'll have to look out for. I'll put Neville here then."

"Neville?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"I'd rather it be you, y'know, I mean—if anybody, you're the most... entertaining."

"Right..." George shared an awkward moment with Angelina, where the both of them merely smiled, then he finally cleared his throat and said, "Right, I'll go place that charm then."

"George, I've been meaning to ask you something," said Angelina as George made for the stairs. George stopped and turned around. Angelina hesitated, in thought, then asked lamely, "Can you fly without a broom? You're a powerful wizard, there's no denying, just wondering is all..."

"Oh," said George with a relieved sigh. "No, m'afraid not."

"You've tried?"

"Yes, quite a bit, actually. I can levitate something and stand on it, but I've got no more precision with that than the next wizard. It's Dark magic, there's nothing else for it."

"Oh, okay, I was just curious."

George cast a suspecting look at his favorite employee.

"Glad you'd never consider doing Dark magic," she added.

"I have," said George. "On my own brother, no less, when I saw my reflection earlier and it looked like I had spinach for hair."

* * *

"Are we even allowed on the train?" asked Hermione.

She was walking alongside Harry, Ron, and Ginny along the white tiled floor of King's Cross station, passing in and out of the rays of light that slanted down from the high windows. In the eyes of the many Muggles that crowded the station, it was merely a quartet of young adults, but there were several Hogwarts-bound witches and wizards double-taking and pointing at them as they passed.

"Cho did it, didn't she?" Harry replied.

"She's studying under a professor!"

"Plus, we haven't got tickets," added Ginny.

"Yeah, and what happens when you don't have tickets?" questioned Ron. "No one's ever prompted me for a ticket."

"The barrier doesn't let you in, I expect," said Hermione.

"That can't be true," argued Harry. "Molly and Arthur were able to get through the barrier and I doubt they had tickets."

"Exactly," added Ron.

"We could have just Apparated," said Hermione, narrowing her eyes at Ron.

"Er, come on, Hermione, what's the fun in that?" said Harry.

Hermione's eyes remained narrow as she looked at Harry suspiciously. She then caught Ginny's eye as they arrived at the portal to Platform Nine and Three-quarters. Harry went first; with a quick glance left and right, he shuffled through the barrier, disappearing into the solid wall. Ron feigned tying his shoe near the barrier, and soon vanished into it as well. Hermione and Ginny simply strolled through when they felt no Muggle would notice.

A hundred watchful eyes greeted the quartet as they passed through the wrought iron archway of Platform Nine and Three-quarters, all belonging to black-robed students and their parents. They stood out especially for their lack of school trunks and pets.

"Ah, here it is," said Harry, beaming, as they arrived before a bright scarlet steam engine.

"The Bandits must be here," said Hermione, standing on her toes to look over the crowd of students boarding the train.

"Perhaps they've been expelled," said Ron hopefully.

"No, there they are," said Ginny, pointing at four students in Hufflepuff robes. "They're helping people load their luggage on..."

"That can't be right," said Ron, squinting at them. "Probably sabotaging them with George's latest Ministry-inquiry-waiting-to-happen."

"Come on, let's go, or all the good compartments will have gone," urged Harry, ushering his friends onto the train.

"_It's Harry Potter!_"

"_Potter?_"

"_Look at his scar!_"

"This never ends, by the way," mumbled Harry as they shuffled down the aisle in search of an empty compartment. "They just keep whispering on and on, like some sort of infernal metronome."

"Yes, but that's the life of a hero, after all," chimed Ginny with a smirk.

"This one's empty," said Hermione, peering through the window of a nearby compartment. "Oh, nevermind, someone's there after all, I didn't see—"

"So?"

Ginny pushed the door open and greeted the sole occupant of the compartment, a pale-skinned boy with blonde hair long enough to reach his chin. He looked up at Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione as the quartet filed into the compartment and took their seats.

"Hello," said Hermione, who was the only one to sit next to the boy. "I'm Hermione Granger."

"Really?" said the boy. "I've heard of you before, from my father."

"Have you?" Hermione smiled. "These are my friends, Ginny—"

"Nice to meet you," said Ginny.

"Harry—"

"Hullo," said Harry, nodding.

"And Ron."

"Hi," said Ron.

"Er, hi," said the boy, looking down at his knees.

"What's your name?"

"It's—it's stupid," said the boy lamely. "Nevermind it."

"Should we call you 'Stu' for short?" teased Ginny.

"It's _Ragglen_," he said, scrunching up his nose. "It's a funny sort of name, I know... I prefer to be called Glen, anyway."

"I have a funny sort of name as well," said Hermione warmly.

"What's your House?" asked Ron.

"Um..."

"First-year?" said Harry. Glen shrugged, still looking at the floor. "Ah, don't be so nervous, you'll just have to put the Sorting Hat on and it'll tell you where you belong."

"And be sure to concentrate really hard on how much you don't want to be in Slytherin," added Ron.

Little Glen merely stared at Ron.

"But it's perfectly fine if you're Sorted into Slytherin," said Hermione quickly.

"Which House were your parents in?" asked Ginny.

"Ravenclaw, the both of them."

"Ravenclaw's pretty good," said Harry. "A'course, it's no Gryffindor..."

"We're all Gryffindors," explained Ginny.

"I know," said Glen.

"You been reading Rita?" said Ron. "Those stories are nothing but waffle. Mostly a bunch of lies, really."

"Er, I'm on the third one..."

"Then I should tell you, that cat was a menace," said Ron.

"He was not!" said Hermione. "He knew that _rat_ was a bad person, so he attacked!"

"Except he did more damage to me than to—to the rat." Ron cast a sidelong glance at Harry, as if afraid he would break down at the mention of Peter Pettigrew. "Still does a good bit of damage to me, in fact."

"That's because you chase him around the house when you're—er, when you're particularly aggressive."

"Let's not have this conversation," said Harry, turning to Glen, who was shrinking into his seat. "I'm sorry, Glen, this is just something they do."

Glen nodded feebly, and the compartment fell into silence for a few minutes.

"Wizard's chess?" suggested Ron. "You've got the board in your bag, right, Hermione?"

"Yes." Hermione reached into her black beaded bag and withdrew a chessboard which was much larger than the bag itself. "Undetectable Extension Charm," she explained to Glen.

Ron and Hermione sat facing each other, playing with the chessboard on their laps. They were halfway through their game when the compartment door banged open and the four Hufflepuff third-years known as the Battle-Axe Bandits stepped in.

"So it's true, you are here," said Roque. "What's going on?"

"We've come to visit Hagrid," replied Harry.

"Yes, but why are you aboard the train?" Roque leaned in closer, cast a shifty glance left and right, and whispered in Harry's ear, "Are there criminals aboard?"

"No, of course not, we just thought it'd be nice."

"Oh, and here I'd thought Ron was here for remedial lessons," mused Blackboot.

"You're not clever," mumbled Ron distractedly as he ordered his knight to take one of Hermione's rooks. "Check."

"Who's this?" asked Roque, nodding towards Glen, who had slunk into the corner of the compartment and was staring out the window.

"Sherman, this is Glen," said Hermione. Roque extended his hand, and Glen shook it. "Glen, this is Sherman—"

"Roque, rather," said Roque, eyeing Glen appraisingly. "We're the Battle-Axe Bandits, us four."

Glen nodded to the other three Bandits, then looked back out the window.

"George said that McGonagall gave you a dressing down," said Ginny.

"Yeah," said Munky. "Told us to tone it down—me, the Munkmaster General, tone it down!"

Elena cleared her throat.

"But I suppose we must."

"That's good," said Hermione, rubbing her chin as she contemplated her next chess move. "Concentrate on your lessons, or you'll end up like George—oh, but he's successful, isn't he?"

"Quite," said Ron, smirking.

"Well, Ron hardly ever paid attention—and he's an Auror trainee..." Hermione frowned. "I'm just realizing how unfair it all is."

The Bandits sniggered, and there was a wave of chatter outside the compartment as a group of young girls passed by. Blackboot hastily ducked under the door's window, pulling the curtains shut.

"Oh stop, it wasn't Donna," said Elena.

Hermione caught Ron's eye and smirked; Ron hid his red cheeks by looking down at the chess board and pretending to strategize.

"Besides, it doesn't matter how good your marks are when you kill You-Know-Who," said Roque.

"Voldemort," said Harry. The Bandits flinched. "No, listen, always use the proper name for things. He's dead, he won't hurt you, so go on, say it."

"Exactly, he's dead," said Hermione. "You can't get anywhere in life by killing him, so it's best to work hard and study."

"You're not that good as jesters, anyway," said Ron. "Any time you pulled one of your little pranks, I always knew it was you."

"That's because you assumed it was them any time something did happen," said Hermione.

"It usually was!"

"We're great jesters," said Blackboot. "We've been _jesting_ our arses off for two years, so we're just taking a break for now. Not like we had any trouble escaping the _Head Boy_ and his _long paw of the law_," he added in a singsong voice.

"Watch it!" warned Ron with a furtive nod at Glen, but Glen didn't seem to be listening.

"What're you going to do now that you can't cause trouble?" wondered Harry.

"We're going after the—"

"Admit nothing!" said Roque, slapping a hand over Elena's mouth.

"Strange little blighters," mused Ron after the Bandits had exited the compartment and disappeared down the aisle.

"Checkmate!" said Hermione.

"What?" Ron looked down at the board. "No, no, look, I can do this."

"No you can't—see my bishop?"

"What?" Ron examined the board closely. "WHAT?"

Ron's king looked up at him with a grave look, then dropped his little stone sword in defeat.

"No!"

"Yes." Hermione beamed.

"Nice one," said Ginny.

"How'd you do it?" demanded Harry.

"Impossible... inconceivable..." Ron looked up from his broken king and stared at Hermione. "You haven't beaten me since we were twelve!"

"I know," said Hermione, still smiling but looking slightly concerned as she watched Ron run his hands through his copper-colored hair. "Er, even if you're the best, you're bound to make mistakes, you know. That explains it, I think."

Ron smirked appreciatively, still staring at Hermione in shock—and admiration. Then he pounced on her, knocking the board off his lap and sending little stone chess pieces cascading down over the floor of the compartment. Ron was kissing Hermione vigorously as the fallen chessmen attempted to crawl back to the board, tutting and complaining of broken limbs.

"Sorry you had to see that—that's the other thing they do," said Harry, patting the frightened Glen on his shoulder.

When the scarlet Hogwarts Express arrived at Hogsmeade Station, the sun had just set, and the night sky on the horizon was still a bright velvety blue. The train came to a halt, hissing loudly, and its doors swung open.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny exited the train along with the throng of students. They stood out amidst the sea of flowing black cloaks by their Muggle jeans, trainers, and t-shirts. As they stepped out onto the platform at Hogsmeade station, a booming voice bellowed somewhere along the path: "All righ', leave yer trunks, firs' years follow me!"

"There he is," said Harry, smiling wide.

Rubeus Hagrid, the colossal and bearded gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, could be seen towering over the heads of the arriving students as he guided the first years towards the lake. Beyond the massive gamekeeper, Hogwarts castle stood atop a high hill, a black shadow but for the glowing golden light from the windows on its many turrets.

"Let's walk," said Hermione. "It would be rude to occupy a coach."

"Yet filling a train compartment is just dandy?" protested Ron, looking longingly after the last Thestral-driven coach as it rolled away.

They began their trek up the long dirt trail that curled around the black lake and zig-zagged up the hill towards the castle.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" commented Harry, nudging Ginny's arm.

"Er, yes, of course it is," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"It just always gets to me," Harry explained quickly.

Hermione caught Ron's eye and they shared a communicative look, then subtly sidled off the trail, leaving Harry and Ginny alone at the front gate of the castle.

"Well, here we are," said Harry. He took a deep breath, then sighed, "Home."

"I don't think we're allowed in for the Sorting," said Ginny.

"Yeah, shame, I'd have loved some treacle tart." Harry gulped, sensing that Ron and Hermione were watching him from behind the beech tree near the lake.

Harry was beginning to question his plan at this point; the castle was pretty under the starry sky, but there was no theater in simply taking her to the school and popping the question. However, Harry felt that, since he had gotten this far, it was best to press on.

Then Harry noticed that Ginny was staring ahead at the towering castle before them, and took his chance to covertly reach into his pocket and withdraw the engagement ring he planned to present to her.

Then, someone called out to him, just as he closed his fingers over the small black box that contained the ring: "Harry! Ginny!"

It was Hagrid, standing under the front gate of the castle, waving a dustbin lid-sized hand jovially. Harry and Ginny ambled over to the half-giant, and both endured a bone-crushing hug simultaneously.

"Knew I saw yeh on the platform," said Hagrid, as Harry and Ginny gasped for air. "Thought I migh'a bin' seein' things—reckon I whiffed too much o' Trelawney's perfume earlier n' went dizzy."

Harry forced a chuckle, now conscious of the box-shaped bulge in his pocket, which he had told Ginny was a roll of gold Galleons, though now he was thinking she might have caught on.

"Ah, n' you two, a'course," continued Hagrid, looking past Harry and Ginny. Harry turned around and saw Ron and Hermione jogging up to them, both giving Harry apprehensive looks. "'Lo, Ron, Hermione, glad yeh came."

"We picked a bad day though, didn't we," said Ron.

"No, 'course not," said Hagrid, waving a massive hand dismissively.

"But you've got to attend the Sorting," said Hermione. "We didn't consider that."

"Nah, in fact, McGonagall wants me ter, in her words, 'send that menace off as soon as yeh can.'"

"M-menace?" said Hermione. "Hagrid, you said in your letter that we were going to meet an _old friend—_"

"Now don't go worryin', it ain't summat that's gonna harm yeh, no," insisted Hagrid as he turned around and set off across the Clock Tower courtyard towards his house. "In fact, McGonagall's said I'm not ter raise any more creatures fer meself, even though none of 'em were 'monsters' like she says, they're jus' a bit easy ter wind up, yeh know."

"Yes, of course," said Hermione. Ron sighed.

"No," he said. "Norbert was a monster—sorry, _Norberta—_she bit me, Hagrid!"

"Sorry 'bout that, Ron," said Hagrid, now leading them across the covered bridge, which creaked in the wind over the moonlit black lake below. "I knew all along, see, that dragons don' make good pets, I just didn't wanna accept it."

Ron simply stared blankly at Hagrid's back, shocked at his admission.

"I'm not stupid, yeh know," the gamekeeper continued. "Migh' delude meself at times, perhaps, but we all tend to make excuses fer our pets, don't we?"

Hagrid turned briefly to wink at Hermione, who smiled sheepishly in return.

"This is just great," huffed Ron. "I'm finding out everyone around me secretly knew their pets wanted me dead."

"Yours was worst of all," argued Ginny.

"But I didn't know that, did I?" argued Ron. "It'd take a Centaur to predict that my pet rat was a Death Eater."

"So who's this 'old friend' we're supposed to be meeting?" wondered Harry; they were trekking down the hill towards Hagrid's house, and there was no sign of any of Hagrid's familiar pets.

"Yeh'll see."

Hagrid did not stop at his front door, but continued around his house and disappeared behind it. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny followed, and Harry and Ron stopped dead in their tracks once they saw it.

Arthur Weasley's sky-blue Ford Anglia was parked behind Hagrid's hut. The enchanted car had been wandering through the Forbidden Forest for years, driven by nobody. Harry thought of it almost like a stray dog, and now it looked terribly depressed; it was trimmed with rust, one of the doors hung ajar, the headlights had been smashed, and there was a big mossy log protruding from the broken windshield.

"_Ta-da!_" said Hagrid, beaming. "Grawp found it when he was out huntin'."

"It's totaled," said Ron weakly. "What'd Grawp do to it?"

"It was already in pretty bad shape from the Whomping Willow," said Harry.

"I can barely recognize it," commented Ginny.

"This is the flying car?" asked Hermione. Harry and Ron nodded.

"Let's try to repair it," said Ron. He drew his wand, took aim, and instructed, "On three. One, two... three!"

"_Reparo__!_"

The car's broken door snapped upright, and its window mended partially; the log in the windshield popped out onto the grass with a heavy thud, and the glass feebly attempted to reform, still leaving a gaping hole; and, with a roar of its engine, the car started and its cracked headlights flickered on.

"It'll do, I suppose," said Ron, shielding his eyes from the light; with his murky post-transformation skin, he looked quite spooky in the shadows cast by the headlights. "Thanks, Hagrid, I know Dad'll be glad to fix her up, as long as Mum doesn't find out."

"Don' mention it," said Hagrid, smiling. "Glad ter see you lot again—oh, I should get back ter the Sorting, migh' still be some food left—see yeh, then."

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny bade Hagrid goodbye and approached the Anglia; its engine was still rumbling.

"How are we going to get it to the Burrow?" wondered Hermione.

"We fly, of course!" said Ron, grinning wickedly. "Hop in."

"_No_, Ron, we can't fly all the way to Devon, have you gone mad?"

"I know, I was joking," said Ron as he opened the door to the driver's seat. "We'll just fly it to Hogsmeade. George built a landing pad on top of the joke shop—Lee told me he planned to build something that can fly, but he gave up, thank Merlin."

The rest of the group entered the car, with Hermione in the passengers seat and Harry and Ginny in the back seats.

"It is _safe_, isn't it?" said Hermione, reaching for her seatbelt.

"Yeah, a'course—what, you don't trust me?"

"You did crash the last time you flew the car, didn't you?"

"The car was tired!" said Ron while hopelessly pummeling the silver button that controlled the Invisibility Booster. Hermione raised her eyebrows, and Harry sniggered. "It was a long ride! Agh, this thing never works."

With a great revving of the engine, the Anglia took off. Hermione gaped, terrified, as they zoomed over the forest, treetops brushing the car's wheels, and headed towards Hogsmeade village in the distance, the car's engine spluttering loudly as they went.

"What's that sound?" she demanded. "Don't you hear that odd noise?"

"It's fine, Hermione," said Ron. "We're not even that high up. You'd survive if you fell."

"How comforting!"

"I can't believe you did this when you were twelve," said Ginny, staring out of her window, which was so dirty that it was like looking through a brown bottle.

"Just another day," said Harry, smirking.

"You almost lost my father his job," Ginny reminded him. Harry's smirk faded.

"It was Ron's idea."

"Here we are," said Ron as they came to a halt above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. "Now how to I descend?"

"We already are descending," said Harry. "The car must be really sleepy at this point, eh Ron?"

"No, I don't think so," answered Ron sincerely. "It's probably half-dead, by the look of it."

Through the windows, the group could see trees and buildings arising all around them as they descended, until finally the car landed atop the joke shop with a thud.

"Piece of cake," said Ron coolly, as he opened his door and stepped out onto the roof.

Then, from inside the car, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny heard another thud, this time accompanied by Ron's pained groan. Ron had stepped out onto the roof and immediately slipped and fallen. He attempted to rise to his feet, but kept slipping up, as if standing on a lane at a bowling alley; after his third attempt, he stumbled over and fell off the roof completely.

"Ron!" shouted Harry. "That looked like an Anti-Traction Charm to me. Bloody George must have seen us coming."

"We'll just have to Apparate out of the car," said Hermione.

With three _*cracks*_, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny disappeared and reappeared in front of the joke shop, where they found Ron laying on his back, looking disgruntled. Then, the shop's door opened, and George peeked his green-haired head out to survey the scene.

"Ah, Ron, I see you tried to walk on the roof," he said, stepping outside. Angelina walked out behind him, looking amused. "Perhaps now you'll think twice before using my own products against me. Revenge is mine!"


	6. Interlude of the Bandit

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

It was the night of September the first, and the school year had begun at Hogwarts. As such, every torch on its stone walls was lit, casting the entire castle in a warm golden light, while House Elves were frantically Apparating throughout the castle, transporting students' luggage to their dormitories before the Sorting, and Peeves was on the prowl, cackling madly at the prospect of new first-years to torment.

The Battle-Axe Bandits joined the arriving students in the entrance hall, all dressed in black robes that were trimmed with House-variant colors; the Gryffindors in gleaming scarlet, the Ravenclaws in peacock blue, the Slytherins in acid green, and the Hufflepuffs in banana yellow.

Like a swarm of scarabs, the mass of students flooded into the Great Hall through its tall double doors. Many marveled at the vast and splendid hall, with its four long House tables under flowing banners of lions, eagles, serpents, and badgers. Above the banners were a thousand floating white candles, which illuminated the hall with the combined light of their small flickering flames. The ceiling was bewitched to be invisible, and appeared to open up to the starry night sky beyond.

After the students had taken their seats and the chatter had waned, the double doors burst open again, and Rubeus Hagrid marched through them, followed by a line of wide-eyed first-years. Hagrid led the first-years in front of the staff table, where Mr. Filch, the gruff and bony caretaker, had placed a small footstool and, upon the footstool, a frayed witch hat.

"Welcome to Hogwarts!" spoke the sharp voice of Hogwarts Headmistress Minerva McGonagall; she was standing on the stage in front of the staff table, before a podium that was in the shape of a solid gold owl. "And to our returning students, welcome back!

"When I call your name, you will sit on the stool and place the Sorting Hat on top of your head, and then you will be Sorted into your Houses. But first, the Sorting Hat's song!"

"He'll be a Ravenclaw for sure," said Roque at the Hufflepuff table as the Sorting Hat began to sing. Roque was sitting beside Blackboot and across from Munky and Elena.

"What if he's stupid?" said Blackboot. "What then?"

"Did he _seem_ stupid?" said Elena reproachfully.

"No, he seemed terrified," said Roque.

"Oh he's just shy. A lot of the first-years are."

"And Munky here bet he was going to be in Gryffindor," said Blackboot, grinning. "Those twenty Sickles are mine already."

"I said Gryffindor or Slytherin," said Munky. "You only win if he's in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff."

"On to more pressing matters," said Roque. "George says the new hideout will be ready very soon—Blackboot, pull yourself together, man!"

Blackboot was ducking his head down, trying to keep from being spotted by a passing Donna Wessger; Roque nudged him on the shoulder and he perked up, his cheeks red, but Donna ignored him and walked briskly to the other end of the table and sat down with her familiar gaggle of chattering friends.

"Miss her?" said Elena, smirking. Blackboot grumbled incomprehensibly.

The Sorting Hat had finished singing, and was now bowing graciously to each of the four House tables, accepting a round of applause from the students.

"Alvers, Elaine!" said Professor McGonagall, reading the name off a long roll of parchment.

A fair-skinned young girl with short black hair emerged from the line of first-years and threw the Sorting Hat over her head; it was too big to fit, and fell down to her shoulders, covering her face completely. Without missing a beat, the Sorting Hat thought hard, and declared: "GRYFFINDOR!"

"George promised us a perfect hideout," continued Roque, "but this year we're do-gooders, right?"

"At least until Halloween," said Blackboot.

"Well, I say we find a way to turn it into points for Hufflepuff."

"Turn what into points for Hufflepuff?" asked a voice from the next table. Roque and Blackboot turned around on their bench and came face-to-face with Con Castle of Gryffindor, who was a thin, light-skinned black boy with a cloud of puffy black hair on his head.

"Shove off, Con," snapped Blackboot.

"Blimey, are you lot getting up to no good again?" said Con in a tone of false concern. "Trying to fix the House Cup, are you? That's grounds for expulsion, I'd say."

"You're starting to sound like Sean," said Roque.

"Hey, that's below the belt, that is," said Con.

"White, Ragglen!" called Professor McGonagall.

The Bandits turned away from Con and focused on little Ragglen, who was now slinking towards the Sorting Hat, staring dreadfully at the hundreds of watchful eyes and looking as though he might faint from all the attention. However, he made it to the stool, and threw the Sorting Hat over his head. It took the garment very little time to decide: "RAVENCLAW!"

The Ravenclaws cheered double for the extremely shy first-year, hoping to encourage him; the cheer was so loud it drowned out Munky, who swore loudly at the announcement.

"Thank you, God, for creating suckers!" said Blackboot as Munky counted twenty silver Sickles and passed them across the table.

"Now, I have one thing to say before the feast," continued Professor McGonagall. "With regard to the recent rise in rulebreaking, I'll offer but one simple warning: I'm beginning to sympathize with Mister Filch, who still keeps his collection of punishment devices good and polished."

The Bandits shared significant looks, and Blackboot sighed.

"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for!" Professor McGonagall raised her hands, and platters of food sprouted from the empty plates along the House tables, causing a huge commotion among the excited students.

"I'm fighting the urge to shout 'food fight,'" said Blackboot through a mouthful of steak-and-kidney pie. "Normally, I'd be above that sort of crude mischief, but now that I'm not allowed..."

"You weren't allowed before," Elena pointed out.

"I know, but I could get away with it, at least."

"No, you couldn't. You obviously didn't get away with it."

"Whatever—you know what I meant."

"You know, I've been thinking," said Roque, but then he stopped and began picking at his teeth with his tongue.

"Do continue," said Elena.

"Sorry, it's this meddlesome pork—anyway, since we're on the straight and narrow, I thought we might help people now instead of hindering them."

"That's outrageous," said Blackboot, cocking an eyebrow. "Go on."

"We've got the skills, and the resources, so why not use them to raise Hufflepuff to greatness?" Roque looked up and down the Hufflepuff House table proudly. "The Battle-Axe Bandits, defenders of justice, and the glorious Hufflepuff House!"

"The toughest!" said Munky. "The bravest!"

"Drink to the greatest!" said Blackboot, raising his silver goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Pipe down over there!" said a Donna Wessger from the end of the table.

Elena scowled, then, much to her fellow Bandits' surprise, she stood up, raised her goblet as well, and declared: "Yes, er—for Hufflepuff house!"

* * *

_Swish_.

"Nice one, Harry," said Hermione, as Ginny jogged over to retrieve the big orange-and-black ball from under the basketball hoop on the garage.

"No, you're supposed to dribble it," said Harry as Ginny walked over to him, cradling the basketball against her hip.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You bounce it up and down with one hand."

"Why would you want to do that?" wondered Ron.

"I don't know, that's just the rule. I think it's so that people have a chance to take the ball from you."

Ginny shrugged, then took a shot, lobbing the ball at the hoop with both hands; it missed the rim completely and banged against the garage door, bouncing into Ron's hands.

"Professional Chaser for the Harpies, ladies and gentlemen," mused Ron, smirking at his sister.

"I'd like to see you do better," she challenged, her hands on her hips.

"No problem." Ron chucked the ball up at the rim with one hand as though throwing a snowball and it sailed clean over the garage and bounced down the alley behind it. "Oops..."

"Now you have to go and fetch it," said Ginny, as Ron hung his head.

Mumbling something that made Hermione scowl, Ron jogged into the alley and disappeared behind the garage, then returned moments later with the ball.

"Why are we here, anyway?" he asked, as he passed the ball to Hermione.

Harry turned and looked to the backyard of the house they were playing behind, where a party was taking place outside. Muggles were scattered all around the yard under the orange setting sun, talking in groups and sipping lemonade and bottled Muggle beer. Standing by a smoking grill, clad in a white apron and wielding a greasy spatula, was Dudley Dursley, Harry's beefy blonde cousin.

George was beside Dudley, overlooking the meat on the grill with hungry eyes, with one arm around Dudley's shoulders, which appeared to be making the heavyweight boxer rather uncomfortable — or perhaps it was the disturbing hole in the side of George's head where he was missing an ear, at which Dudley cast frequent glances.

"We're here because we were invited," said Harry lamely after a moment, while Hermione shot the ball and it clanked off the rim.

"Yeah, but why waste a perfectly good Saturday evening with a great bloody git like Dudley?"

"I don't know." Harry paused to grab the ball as it rolled to his feet, and throw up another shot, which hit the backboard and then went in, tickling the net with a _swoosh_. "I mean, if Dudley wants to build bridges with me, I guess I can't bring myself to just shun him."

"He shunned you, didn't he?" argued Ron. Harry shrugged.

"You _were_ close, weren't you, Harry, even if you didn't like him?" said Hermione, and Harry nodded slowly, in thought. "I think it's wonderful you've made up."

"Really, you think it's wonderful we're here with a pack of Mug—I mean, Dudley's friends, playing this silly sport with our feet firmly on the ground—and the ball's too light, too, I'm sure you saw how the wind picked it up on my last shot—"

"What's so bad about being around, er... these people?" Hermione's tone was icy.

"Nothing, nothing, but I don't see why we had to come along to Harry's big reunion."

"To show Dudley how wrong he was," said Ginny, who now had the ball. "Make him see that Harry's got great friends."

"Ah," said Ron, cottoning on. "So you want to make him jealous, eh Harry?"

"No, not really—nice shot, Ginny!" said Harry, smiling proudly. He then fetched the ball from under the hoop and passed it back to his girlfriend. "Here, take another."

"Thank you, dear," said Ginny; her use of the word 'dear' reminded Harry eerily of Molly. "I don't know why you're whinging so much, Ron, I would think you'd be glad to be here, free food and all—oh come on!"

"What'd I do?" demanded Ron.

"Ron, you're not supposed to block the ball on its way down. That's goaltending," explained Harry.

"_Goaltending?_" repeated Ron, now holding the ball at his side; his hand was big enough to grip it in one palm. "Since when are there rules against goaltenders? Dean says Keepers are like goaltenders, and that they're really important!"

"Yes, in football, but this is basketball."

"You mean there are more than one of these Muggle sports?"

Harry and Hermione sniggered at Ron's gobsmacked expression as he begrudgingly relinquished the ball to Ginny.

"Though I have to admit, it is a bit odd being around these people," said Ginny as she threw up another shot, which bounced off the rim and into Hermione's hands. "We could have eaten outside at the Burrow all the same, and then you could have brought Teddy."

"No, I don't want you hanging around Teddy," said Harry quickly. Ron and Hermione turned their heads alertly to see Ginny staring at Harry, incredulous; Hermione was so distracted that her shot veered wildly off course, and went in.

"I mean—I don't think—it's just—you're a bad influence on him, I reckon," stammered Harry.

"_Excuse me?_"

"No, I didn't mean that!" Harry amended, waving a pacifying hand. "Just, nevermind it."

"What Harry's trying to say," spoke a voice from the yard adjacent to the garage, "is that Ickle Teddy is in need of _good_ role models, such as myself, and not some—some _professional athlete_, who travels from port to port, getting up to all sorts of hooliganry!"

"Piss off, George," snapped Ginny.

George and Dudley had stepped away from the party to talk to the ball-playing witches and wizards. George's arm was still draped firmly around Dudley's shoulder.

"Hey, the Daily Prophet says it, so I believe it," said George innocently. "If you can't trust a newspaper, who can you trust, eh Diddykins?"

"Harry," said Dudley, pointedly ignoring the green-haired man attached to him. "The food's ready. Come, help yourself."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," said Harry, though he was grinning at the smoking grill behind Dudley's house. Beside him, Ron's stomach groaned audibly.

Side-by-side, Dudley and George led the way back to the party, where two picnic tables had been placed on the lawn, which was coated with an amber glow from the sunset. One table was full of Dudley's Muggle friends, and the other had only one occupant, a girl with curly blonde hair who was wearing a small white shirt that exposed some of her midriff.

Dudley approached the grill and began fixing burgers and handing them out to the guests on thin paper plates, slightly hindered by George hanging on his shoulder. After everyone filled their plates, they sat down at the picnic table and began eating. Ron bit into his burger and forgot his every complaint about being dragged along to the party, relishing in chewing on the cloud of smoky flavor.

"Oh, Harry, this is Rebecca," said Dudley, nodding to the curly-haired girl. "Rebecca, this is my cousin Harry."

"The—the weird one, Dud?" she asked, looking uneasy.

"Yeah, that's me," said Harry. His friends sniggered, and Rebecca shifted uncomfortably.

"Nice to meet you, then," she said, nodding. She then glanced at Ron, who was grinning with pleasure as he chomped away at his burger. "So, are you in the military, er..."

"Ron," supplied Harry.

"Huh?" Ron looked up from his meal. "Yeah, I am, but how'd you know about that?"

Harry and Hermione shared a look.

"The camouflage trousers gave you away," said Rebecca, now smiling warmly; she seemed more comfortable knowing one of weird-cousin-Harry's friends was involved in something she considered normal.

"Camouflage?" repeated Ron, looking down at his pants; Ron's idea of Muggle attire was a beige button-up shirt tucked into baggy camouflage pants. "Oh, _that_ army—no, you're mistaken—_ergh!_"

Hermione had elbowed him in the ribs.

"I m-mean, yeah, I'm in the Mug—I mean, the armed forces—joined up as soon as I came of age, in fact!"

"You must be brave," Rebecca gushed. Dudley sighed in relief and wiped a coat of sweat off of his forehead.

"Yeah, Ronnie's a true hero, isn't he?" said George. "I'm his older, wealthier, better-looking brother, George."

Though she seemed put off at first by George's vibrant green hair, Rebecca giggled as George shook her hand from Dudley's side.

"Ron _is_ a hero!" said Hermione reproachfully. "I'm Hermione Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Cheers."

"She's obligated to say that," explained George. "Ron's girlfriend and all. Anyway, this is our sister, Ginny—Ginny _Weasley—_that's her last name, do you know..."

Harry shot George a heated glare, infuriated by his snide smirk.

"Hello," said Ginny, eyeing her one-eared brother curiously.

There was an awkward silence, where Harry glared cold daggers at George, and Ron chewed loudly.

"So," said George, cutting through the tension. "Anyone fancy a toffee?"

Dudley snapped to his feet, breaking free from George's grasp for the first time, and dropping meat and bread down his front, and exclaimed: "NOOO!"

* * *

"Someone, hit me with a Cheering Charm," whined Ron as he, Harry, Ernie, and Clarinda trudged miserably up the dark stone stairs from the dungeons of the Ministry of Magic, which were used for Auror training.

"I would if I could move my arm," breathed Harry.

"I miss Stealth and Tracking," said Ernie. "Will we really need to execute such heavy wandwork on missions?"

"God, I hope not."

"They're just training us up that way in case we ever do need to fire thirty siege spells back-to-back," said Clarinda; with her energetic nature, she had not tired as heavily as her three squadmates.

"Thirty!" barked Ron. "You were doing thirty? I was only doing fifteen!"

"Yeah, me too," added Harry.

"We were supposed to do sets of thirty," said Ernie, managing a smirk through his heavy breathing.

They arrived at the top of the staircase and stepped through the open doorway and into the Auror Headquarters. Harry and Ron were hanging onto nearby cubicles for support as they walked down the main aisle, while Clarinda and Ernie watched them with amusement. When they reached Ron's cubicle, which was nearest, they found someone already sitting in Ron's chair; a bushy-haired someone in black robes.

"Hello Hermione," said Clarinda brightly. "Have you come down for lunch?"

"No, actually, the Minister's asked me to fetch these two," said Hermione, gesturing towards Harry and Ron, who had collapsed side-by-side against Ron's cubicle wall. "Come on, guys, I don't want to be late."

"Wow, lunch with the _Minister_..." Clarinda's eyes were wide.

"We knew him before he was Minister, you know," said Harry as he and Ron stood up. "It's really not that extraordinary."

"It sounds extraordinary to me!"

"That's because you have a thing for him," said Ernie.

"What—who told you that?" Clarinda scoffed. "I don't have a _thing_ for him. He is handsome, but that doesn't—and powerful too, I suppose, but that's no reason—and _tall_..."

"Do you ever run out of steam?" said Ron, looking horrified.

"It's all this exercise. I get hyperactive from it."

"No kidding."

"Come on, let's go," said Hermione as she stood from Ron's chair and led the way out of the Auror office, followed by Harry and Ron.

"Excited, aren't you?" observed Ron, eyeing Hermione's wide smile.

"I do think it's rather extraordinary," she replied. "I wonder why he's summoned us. Perhaps there's been a new development in House Elf relations—or the Death Eater trials!"

"I lost all faith in those when the Malfoys got off," grumbled Ron.

"It was in exchange for evidence against Voldemort's entire cabinet!"

"We should have taken the exchange, then locked them up anyway. Simple."

"Don't start," said Harry. "Look, if it's about House Elves then why would he want us to come too?"

"Well, you two were the first members of S.P.E.W. after all, but somehow I doubt that's the reason."

"We're probably in trouble," said Ron. "Robards will have told him we're _reckless_. Getting in trouble is so much worse when you know you really did a good job..."

"If you were in trouble, your boss would have handled it himself," said Hermione.

"Maybe it's something to do with George," suggested Harry. "Are Anti-Traction Charms legal?"

"Yes."

"They shouldn't be," said Ron.

The trio arrived at the lifts and entered one of them. After its golden grilles clanged shut, it took them down to the floor below, and a cool feminine voice echoed throughout the lift: "_Level one, Ministers for Magic and Support Staff._"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stepped out of the lift and into a long hallway with rows of doors on either side, each leading to the office of a high-ranking Ministry official. Hermione led the way to the end of the hall and stopped before a door with a polished gold plaque that read _Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic._

Hermione took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then knocked on the door to Kingsley's office. After a moment, the door opened, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione found themselves face-to-face with Higgins, Kingsley's assistant, who was a very wide man with no neck and a white cloth sticking out of his pocket which he used to wipe sweat off of his forehead every few seconds.

"Hello, Higgins," said Harry.

Higgins nodded curtly and stepped back to admit the three guests.

Kingsley was sitting behind his desk, clutching half of a sandwich in one hand and a roll of parchment in the other.

"Come, sit down," he said. "Not you, Higgins."

Higgins' puffy face fell, then turned and exited the office.

"Higgins has just handed me a report," said Kingsley, holding up the parchment. "Regarding the exports of one Ali Bashir, who's been marketing his new invention—get this—_the flying rug_. Sound familiar?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione raised their eyebrows in amusement.

"He changes one word and expects he'll circumvent the ban on flying carpets." Kingsley took a bite out of his sandwich, causing sprouts to puff out of its sides.

"Damn it all!" said Ron suddenly; he had just pulled a lumpy sandwich out of Hermione's black beaded bag. Hermione, who was smiling and nodding politely to Kingsley, looked scandalized.

"Ron!"

"Ginny's packed corned beef for me again," Ron explained. "You'd think she'd take a hint after watching me gripe about it for twenty years."

"You're one to talk about taking a hint," Hermione couldn't help but say. "And pack your own lunch if you're unhappy with the job Ginny's done. Besides, this isn't appropriate to discuss while meeting with the Minister for Magic."

"Wuh?" replied Ron through a mouthful of corned beef. He gulped and said, "S'just Kingsley, innit?"

"Yes, it is," said Kingsley, smiling with laughter. Hermione forced a laugh as well.

"I suppose I could ask Kreacher to take over," said Ron, rubbing his chin and looking exaggeratedly thoughtful.

"No, that's not necessary at all," said Hermione. "Oh well, I suppose the task falls upon me, now. It'll be a nice test of your mother's lessons, won't it?"

"Depends on whether or not Harry's willing to do it."

"Now you're just winding me up."

"Er, excuse me," interjected Harry. "I'd like to know why we were called here. Has something happened? Are we in trouble?"

"No, of course not," said Kingsley as he waved his wand over his desk, vanishing the mess of sprouts that had accumulated on it. "Well, first, Ron, I'd like to offer my regards to your brother Percy. We're all hoping for a speedy recovery."

"Wha?" said Ron, his mouth full again. "Wha'appen'd?"

"It appears his Self-Correcting Quill didn't appreciate the frequency of double negatives Percy used in reports. The quill went rogue and there was, well, a minor hostage situation, but Percy escaped with only a few cuts—and tattoos—and he's now recovering at St. Mungo's."

"Blimey, is that why you called us in here?" said Harry.

"Oh no, I've called upon you to inform you that you've received Order of Merlin, first class, the three of you."

Harry's eyes widened, Hermione squealed, and Ron nearly choked on his sandwich.

"Woah!" said Ron with a dumb grin. "Order of Merlin..."

"It's something we've been meaning to arrange for some time now," continued Kingsley. "But everything's been so busy, what with the War on Delirium, Death Eater trials, rebuilding everything, and George Weasley-related damage control."

"Order of Merlin, _first class_," said Ron airily, running a hand through his hair in a manner reminiscent of Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Don't we get some sort of badge?" asked Harry.

"Yes, something like that," said Kingsley. "You are to receive the honors at the upcoming Ministry dinner."

"Oh, this is just wonderful!" cheered Hermione. "At the New Years dinner—all of the top Ministry officials will attend, won't they?"

"Yes, so do dress up," said Kingsley with a pointed glance at Ron, who had crammed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and was struggling to chew it all. "You'll also give a speech, all three of you."

"Excuse me?" Harry blanched. "A speech—a public speech, in front of everyone?"

"Correct."

"Can't I just thank a bunch of people?"

"No."

"Heroes aren't afraid to speak in public," quipped Hermione under her breath.

"But I don't know how to write a speech!" Harry protested. "You lied earlier—we _are_ in trouble, aren't we, that's why you're doing this—"

"Well, you've got plenty of time to learn," said Kingsley, laughing at Harry's panic. "The ceremony will take place at the turn of the millennium. Good luck."


	7. The Midnight Thief

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman. The power of the em dash shall be my quill.

* * *

"_Ron, wake up!_"

Hermione shook Ron so firmly that the bed began to wobble. Ron's eyes fluttered open and he pushed himself up with a jolt. He was just about to reach for his wand which he kept in a nook under the bedframe when he saw Hermione laying beside him, watching him with wide eyes.

"Ron, are you awake? You were shaking and talking—rambling, dreaming something terrible, by the look of it—"

"Oh. Yeah, I was." Ron sighed, calming down.

"Spiders?" Hermione asked, sounding almost hopeful. Ron shook his head.

"Death Eaters," he said. Hermione winced. "And brains, and, um, Fred..."

"Oh... I still worry about them," said Hermione as Ron sat up next to her, against the headboard. "The Death Eaters, I mean... they disappeared so abruptly... it just seems as though all the... evil—it went away so quickly—it seems too good to be true."

"We can't have captured the whole lot," Ron agreed. "We rounded up the real Death Eaters though... Y'know, V-Voldemort's inner circle, at least, especially after the sodding _Malfoys_ sold them all out. Just shows they're the real weasels, not us."

"All right, then, I take it?"

"Of course! What, d'you really think I'm scared of them?"

"Not by the conventional definition of fear, no, but things like—well, things like what happened to us tend to leave an impression. I know you can beat them, especially now. They were all cowards. In any case, the Malfoys don't deserve to be called weasels."

"_What?_"

"They don't." Hermione stuck her chin up. "It's too kind. They're lowly, pathetic, conniving little snakes."

"How's a weasel better than a snake?"

"Weasels hunt snakes," said Hermione simply. Ron was very pleased at this. Hermione's eyes then wandered to Ron's arms. "Did you say brains?"

"Now _they_ left an impression. But it's in the past, though, and no lasting damage done—I think—and blimey, has it really been five years since those stupid brains—heh, 'stupid brains,' that's got to be one of those 'octomorons' you were telling me about."

"Technically, I don't think it is—an _oxymoron_, you mean—'octomorons' won't exist until the day you sprout four more limbs!"

"Oi!"

"Only joking." Hermione giggled for a moment at Ron's mock-indignation, but then her expression hardened, and she asked rather tentatively, "Did it hurt a lot?"

"I don't remember, actually. I think that goofy spell I was under blanked my recollection of it. My skin stung like a Skrewt for a good month afterwards, though. Then I discovered I had the ability to read minds, did you know? I was most appalled by the goings-on in yours."

"Don't be silly, you have a hard enough time reading your own mind, and even that's more of a pamphlet than a full book."

"Hey, that's enough cracks at my intelligence, thank you."

"I'm sorry. It's not often that I get on a roll."

"You are not _on a roll. _You call that a roll?"

"So, from a Boggart's perspective, brains over spiders?"

"I don't know about that. Brains don't want me to tapdance."

"What?"

"Nevermind that. I think my fear of spiders eclipses a bad memory I can't even remember properly."

"But your fear of spiders stems from a bad memory too, doesn't it? When your brothers turned your bear into a spider?"

"Yeah, I guess, but I was a bit more impressionable then, so I'd be impressed if the brains managed to leave a bigger impression than that—wait, how the hell did you know about that, anyway?"

"From you. God, that was so long ago now..."

"And you remembered? Sounds like someone had a crush," Ron quipped. "Yeah, I couldn't stand spiders after that, and I never trusted Fred or George or stuffed bears ever again. Speaking of Boggarts, I bet yours has changed. I doubt McGonagall telling you you've failed all your classes still ranks up with your biggest fears."

"That's not all it was," said Hermione. "I feared failure—failure at everything, not just classes."

"Still a silly form for a Boggart to take."

"I know. I suspected there might be a Boggart in that obstacle course. I should have realized it wasn't real, but it caught me by surprise."

"What?" Ron stared at Hermione in disbelief. "Don't tell me you actually thought the real McGonagall was waiting to ambush you with all your failing grades?"

"I didn't think that's the form a Boggart would take!" said Hermione defensively. "I was so sure it would be Harry, you know, er—as though Sirius had gotten to him—remember what it was like then, when we thought Sirius was after Harry..."

"Oh." Ron frowned. "Shame you didn't take a turn facing that Boggart in class then, fucking hell—"

"_Ron!_" Hermione scolded. Ron looked annoyed.

"We're of age, Hermione, we can swear."

"That doesn't mean you should abuse the privilege. It's rude—hang on—" Hermione reached behind her back and shifted around, then pulled out a small blue box from under herself. "_Ron!_"

"What now?"

"Look at this!" said Hermione as she dug under the blankets and unearthed two more empty Chocolate Frog wrappings. "Look at the mess you've made!"

"I can't have," argued Ron. "I haven't even been in this bed since Dudley's party, so it must have been... _you._"

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the Chocolate Frog box in her hand and squeaked a quiet _oh_, then looked back up at him with a sheepish grin.

"So, have you heard George is cancelling the Honeyjuice drinks?" she tried.

"You were perfectly ready to have a go at me over _your_ mess, weren't you?" Ron demanded, his smugness causing Hermione to scowl.

"I forgot I ate them, so I just assumed," Hermione admitted. "During the embargo, I had access to your entire supply of Chocolate Frogs, and—well, I just open them for the cards, that's all—at least that's what I'll be telling my parents."

Hermione grinned and Ron grinned too, on the verge of laughter, then threw himself over her, pinning her down amidst the clutter of pentagonal blue boxes and golden foil.

Ron and Hermione emerged from their room later and made their way down the hall together. When they passed Sirius's old room, which Harry had turned into a study after he had moved most of Sirius's possessions down into the living room, they found the door open. Ron and Hermione stopped and peeked into the study, and spotted Harry working at one of the desks by the window; beside him, there were several stacks of discarded parchment and Harry appeared to be on his fourth quill.

"Preparing to address the nation?" said Ron as he and Hermione entered the study.

"Mhm," replied Harry without looking up from his notes.

"Morning, Harry," said Hermione as she walked over to Harry and parted the curtains of the window next to him, revealing a bright, foggy sky outside; Harry recoiled and shielded his eyes from the light.

"What's so good about it?" he grumbled, concentrating again on his writing.

"I didn't actually say _good_ morning..."

"What're we supposed to talk about anyway?" said Ron from the other side of the room; he was lounging on Sirius's bed, which was one of the few bits of furniture that remained from Sirius's old setup.

Harry looked up from his speech and scowled at Ron, annoyed by Ron's carefree demeanor.

"We're supposed to discuss the war and why we won, and which direction the Ministry should go for the future," explained Hermione.

"And there's the difficulty," said Harry. "How am I meant to tell the Ministry that the war was a result of their stupidity?"

"Gently, I'd imagine."

"What about you, Ron, aren't you worried about this at all?"

"Huh?" Ron yawned, then sat up at the foot of the bed to stop himself dozing off, and said, "Because Hermione's not worried, and we both know I'll just have her do it—"

"No you won't," said Hermione firmly.

"What?" Ron stood up. "Why not?"

"Because you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself. I don't help you with your Auror work and I'm not helping you with this."

"But you're already making me write that silly card for Percy!"

"No I'm not, I just wrote him one of my own."

"Yeah, so now I have to, or we'll never hear the end of it. He'll be out of St. Mungo's in a few days' time, so why bother?"

"Would you two mind?" snapped Harry. "I'm trying to write, and I don't need you two going at it right here on Sirius's bed, thank you."

"I don't know, Harry," said Ron thoughtfully. "D'you reckon we should just wing it?"

"Yes, that sounds like a marvelous plan," laughed Hermione. "Or non-plan, I should say."

"And what're you going to say, if you're so clever?"

"I'm clever enough to know you're just trying to get ideas from me, and it's not going to work."

"Why aren't either of you asking me?" spoke a voice from the doorway; Ginny was leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed.

Harry and Ron glanced at each other briefly, then broke into a mad dash towards Ginny. Harry reached her first, because Ron had tripped over a chair and fallen on his face.

"So, Ginevra, I need help writing this speech, naturally I thought of you," said Harry as Ginny watched Hermione help Ron to his feet as he rubbed his long nose in pain.

"I could take a look at it once you're finished," said Ginny with a smirk. "Just to correct your spelling... maybe make sure the word 'hero' is limited to only ten or so..."

"And me?" inquired Ron hopefully.

"I would, but, do you know, this 'winging it' thing sounds like it'll be much funnier."

"Fine then. I don't know why I wanted your help in the first place."

"Well, I'm never going to get any writing done with you lot in here," said Harry, retrieving his speech from the desk and pocketing the parchment. "It's almost time for work anyway—what do you think, Ron? Three-hundred-sixty degree, one-legged, upside-down—"

"How about a handstand?" suggested Ron.

"Can't you two just Floo like normal wizards?" said Hermione reproachfully.

"It's the Ministry's fault for making their fireplaces so luxurious and fun," reasoned Harry. "It's like one of those amusement park rides you see on the telly."

"Well when Percy's recovered, I'll just have to inquire about installing speed bumps in the atrium then, won't I?"

"Yeah, that'd actually cheer him right up, that would," chuckled Ron. "Something as boring as that, it'd probably make his day."

* * *

"I don't like it," said Ron, scratching his head. "What a rubbish assignment."

"At least it's not anything to do with underage magic," said Clarinda.

"And we are the _lowest of the low_, after all," sighed Harry. "Can't wait 'till training's over and we're proper Aurors."

"Maybe then my legs will stop aching," said Ernie.

"We might even get some sleep," added Clarinda.

Auror trainee squad Teal Team Six were trudging down a long, swerving dirt path in the English countryside. The grassy fields around the trail were wet and dewy with the faint drizzle of rain from the smoky sky above.

Harry, Ron, Ernie, and Clarinda walked cross the damp dirt with their eyes fixed on something further along the trail: a large carriage parked in the middle of the dirt path. When he spotted the carriage, Ernie mentioned a possible violation of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy; there were no horses in sight, so the carriage must have been powered by magic.

"What I don't understand," said Ron, "is why Bluish-Purple wasn't given this crap assignment—and why couldn't they have just been called Indigo?"

"Perhaps Mr. Robards isn't as knowledgeable of color shades as you," said Clarinda, sounding impressed.

"That's probably Hermione's doing," explained Harry.

"Besides, it _is_ a burglary investigation, isn't it?"

"Right, someone went and robbed a traveling merchant in the middle of nowhere. No witnesses, probably no evidence, and no bloody reason to even bother with it!"

"We haven't exactly had a good year, have we?" said Ernie. "And Bluish-Purple's hardly ever scolded these days."

"Yeah, perfect saints, aren't they?" growled Ron with disgust. "If they were sent to that Moja nightmare, they'd be effing dead!"

Teal Team Six arrived at the carriage in the middle of the dirt road. To Harry, it looked like a cross between the massive, elegant Beauxbatons carriage and the dark, spooky Durmstrang ship; its chipped wood was painted in a shiny, licorice black, and its wheels appeared to be solid jade. On its side was a sliding window with an arcing black-and-gold sign above it that read _Jensen Brothers Mask Market._

Harry looked back to his three squadmates briefly, then stepped forth and knocked on the sliding wooden window on the side of the carriage.

"Ministry of Magic!" he said.

There was some shuffling inside the carriage, and then the window slid open; Harry took a step back, startled, as several racks of multicolored wooden masks extended from the window like a popup book.

Sitting behind the window was a thin man with short, neatly combed hair, a birdlike face and a pointy mustache. The man rolled up the sleeves of his robes and rested his bony elbows on the windowsill.

"Welcome to the Jensen Brothers Mask Market," he said in monotone. "My name is Ross, how may I help you?"

But Harry, Ron, Ernie, and Clarinda were all too distracted by the collection of masks that had popped out before them. Some were colorful African tribal masks, while others looked like Easter Island heads; some were Japanese, with angry expressions and long, bulbous noses; some were made of shiny iron, others of sleek painted wood.

"Cool!" said Clarinda as she picked from the shelf a salmon-pink mask that looked like a cat's face, complete with realistic whiskers sprouting from above its mouth.

"Yes, my dear, that is the Catsense mask," said Ross Jensen. "A fisherman's tool, the mask gives the wearer a nose for fish."

"So it's a magical mask?"

"Er, that's not why we're here," said Harry, batting Clarinda on the arm until she put the mask back on its hook. Ross narrowed his eyes. "We received a report of a burglary."

"Yes, I filed the report, which included my brother's eyewitness account," said Ross curtly. "However, I was not aware we would be under investigation."

"Told you this would be a fruitless lark," mumbled Ron.

"You got no argument from me," whispered Clarinda.

"Can you tell us what happened?" asked Harry.

"We were raided in the night by a most powerful wizard availed by the element of surprise," droned Ross. "My brother Noren attempted to fend him off."

Ross moved aside, revealing his brother, who was sitting on a stool in the back of the carriage chipping away at a sheet of wood with a small knife. Noren was thicker and wider than Ross, with a big forehead and rectangular glasses.

"And what was stolen?" asked Harry.

"One mask. It was our finest mask," said Ross bitterly. "The Animesmer mask, which bestows upon the wearer command over wild animals."

"What's this one do?" said Ron, now holding a white circular mask with a big blue dot at its center; it reminded Harry of Alastor Moody's magical eye.

"That," said Ross, "is the Liar's Lament. It is capable of seeing untruths whenever they are spoken—you will see it in the liar's breath."

"Wicked." Ron strapped the Liar's Lament mask over his face and looked at Clarinda expectantly.

"Oh!" said Clarinda after a moment, cottoning on. "Um... _I'm taller than you!_"

"I don't see anything," said Ron.

"You are not receptive to the mask's power!" snapped Ross, pulling the mask off of Ron's head. Ron stared at the mask dealer, nonplussed.

"Anyway," said Harry, "Mr. Jensen, can you remember any distinguishing features of the culprit?"

"The coward's face was hidden in the shadow of his hood," replied Ross as he polished the Liar's Lament on the shoulder of his robes and returned it to the mask rack. "Noren saw nothing but the thief's silver cloak before the both of us were most egregiously cursed."

"Hey, what's this one do?" asked Ron, holding up a white mask that was painted with the face of a clock, with numbers one through twelve skirting around its edges.

"Equipped with that mask, one is unable to fall asleep," said Ross. "Ideal for the late worker."

Ron raised his eyebrows, and Harry couldn't help but smirk; Ross was barking up the wrong orange-leafed tree there.

"Might a discount entice you?" Ross continued. "Anything to help our beloved Ministry..."

"No thanks."

"Well then, if you're not going to buy anything, we'll just be going! It is a day of business!"

"All right," said Harry timidly. "We'll contact you if we find the—"

Harry was interrupted as all the racks and trays of masks curled back into the carriage and Ross slammed the sliding window shut. The jade wheels of the carriage then burned amber and the carriage began to move along down the trail.

"That's definitely a violation," said Ernie, watching the carriage as it rolled up a hill on the horizon and disappeared past it. "We should report this."

"If you want to handle the paperwork then go right ahead," said Ron.

"It would earn us some recognition at the office," said Ernie. "Anything to salvage this stupid assignment."

"I don't mind being out here," said Harry, taking a deep breath and smiling as he gazed at the greenery all around them. "Remember, we're doing this in place of spell drills in the Ministry dungeons."

"They didn't seem too interested in recovering the stolen mask," observed Clarinda.

"Because it's nothing but a scrap of wood," said Ron. "_You are not receptive to the mask's powers!_ They'd might as well be the Trelawney brothers."

"They've got her eyesight as well," said Harry. "A man in a silver cloak isn't much to go on. Not even for a hero," he added.

Clarinda made an exaggerated retching noise. Harry ignored her and turned to Ernie. "So, Ernie, you've got an extensive vocabulary, I reckon. D'you fancy speechwriting at all?"

* * *

"Seems a lot to spend on robes just for some stupid Ministry dinner," Ron was saying as he, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny exited Madame Malkin's Robes for all Occasions and joined the evening crowd in Diagon Alley, attracting the stares of many witches and wizards as they passed.

"It's not just a stupid Ministry dinner—you're receiving Order of Merlin," said Ginny, incredulous. "First class, at that!"

"I know, I know, but now we've got to do those speeches, and spend all our Galleons—well, all _my_ Galleons, I'm sure you two have still got plenty—"

"_I've_ got plenty?"

"Yeah, now you're with Harry, I mean."

"We aren't married!"

"Well, you're a Quidditch player, in any case," said Ron, taking Harry's glare for a signal to change the subject. "It's just small consolation for all the hell we went through, isn't it?"

"Really, Ron, all that time you were just fighting for an Order of Merlin badge?" said Hermione, smirking. "I'm hurt."

"Heavens no! I did it all for the Chocolate Frog card!"

"Hang on," said Hermione, stopping at a wooden stand outside Flourish and Blott's where a Daily Prophet salesman was shouting the day's headlines at passersby.

"Want to read up on Ginny's latest escapades, do you?" grumbled Harry as Hermione paid the salesman and returned with a copy of the Daily Prophet under her arm. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"No, but look at this," said Hermione, unfolding the paper and reading the front page. "_Midnight Thief Strikes Again_."

"Who's that?" asked Ron.

"I knew something like this would happen," said Hermione, eyeing the paper with loathing. "That's just like them. The Prophet's taking advantage of the recent string of burglaries in Knockturn Alley. _Midnight Thief_... clearly he's meant to be some sort of debonair catburglar."

"And here you let this publication get to you, Harry," said Ginny, shaking her head. "Daily_ Profit_ is right..."

"Has there been another robbery then?" asked Harry.

"Yes," said Hermione. "The Spiny Serpent in Knockturn Alley, but apparently the shop owner scared the intruder off."

"Some Midnight Thief," commented Ron with a smirk.

"Is there a description of the thief?" asked Harry.

"Nothing, I'm afraid."

"Wonder what case we'll be put on next," mumbled Ron. "So, what d'you reckon? Joke shop?"

"What, and listen to you brag about having hoodwinked George?" scoffed Ginny.

"Hey, it was a team effort!" said Hermione.

Ron threw an arm around her, and said, "My love, I think it's time we bask in our combined genius."

"You know, lover, I do agree."

"Stop," said Ginny.

"Bully for us, Hermione!" continued Ron, adopting a whimsical tone. "_Ha-ha-ha!_"

"Indeed!"

"Kill me now, Ginny," said Harry, shaking his head.

In the end, they decided that they would visit the joke shop. When they stepped through the door, which had a sign posted on its window advertising the new Weasley's Die-Hard Dye Drops, they found the place to be a madhouse; customers were queueing up at the registers in long lines that filled most of the store, and children were testing disastrous products in the aisles, with a frantic Lee Jordan dashing from shelf to shelf, waving his wand to and fro, diffusing lit fireworks and dispelling cursed toys.

Behind the front counter, Neville was directing customers through the magically automated golden registers to the best of his ability. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny squeezed through the thicket of customers and made their way to the counter.

"Hey Neville, where's George?" asked Ron.

"He's at the Burrow," said Neville. "Urgent call from your mum, I think—sorry, you need the company of a parent or guardian to purchase Portable Swamps," Neville then said to a young boy who was trying to push a green-and-purple box past one of the registers.

"Urgent call?" repeated Ginny. She and her friends exchanged looks for a moment, then Ginny exclaimed, "Well let's not wait here for Lee to die of exhaustion!"

At that, they bade goodbye to Neville and darted through the crowd and out of the shop, where they stopped, turned in place, and disappeared together with a resonant _*crack*_. Then, together, they reappeared all the way across the country at the Burrow.

When they arrived, the quartet stopped in their tracks, watching the scene at the towering Weasley home. They knew at once that there was no danger; several of their friends had gathered to sit at a sturdy brown picnic table in the front yard, laughing and chatting.

George stood out immediately by his cursed hair, which was in the process of fading back to its original color; currently in-between vibrant green and coppery orange, it was a sandy blonde. Sitting beside George were Molly and Arthur, who were conversing excitedly across the table from Bill and Fleur Weasley.

Bill's long hair was tied in a ponytail that fell down his back, and his face, though heavily scarred, was bright and beaming. His beautiful wife Fleur was glowing as well as she chatted away with Molly and Arthur, her long blonde hair occasionally sweeping up in the breeze.

Sitting beside Bill and Fleur, though not looking nearly as jolly, was a bandaged Percy. There were bandages wrapped over his forehead like a headband, plasters of gauze over his cheek and chin, and his arm was in a sling.

"Mum!" called Ron as he, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny approached the table.

"Oh, there you are, Ron, I was afraid we'd never get ahold of you!" said Molly as everyone greeted them.

"Mum, what's going on?" asked Ron. "Neville said something about an urgent call—"

"Oh, there's nothing the matter, don't worry, we were just meeting together this evening."

"Oh, well that doesn't sound so urgent." Relieved, Ron sat down at the table along with Harry, Hermione, and Ginny.

"Didn't you get my owl?" asked Bill. Ron shook his head.

"We were out on a case today, then we nipped by Diagon Alley to buy robes," explained Harry.

"Oh, then I suppose you wouldn't have. I did leave it a bit late, but I was distracted..."

"That's odd. I'm used to Hedwig being able to track me down. She was so dependable."

"You are truly a boy, 'Arry," said Fleur. "Deependable? She was seemply beautiful!"

"I know old Errol agrees," said George. "These days he sees you, Harry, without her, and he knows she's gone, the poor pile of feathers... reckon we should retire him."

George cast a furtive glance at his mother, but she had pretended not to hear.

"All right, Perce?" said Ginny, glancing across the table at her bandaged brother.

"Getting better," said Percy in a theatrically gruff voice. "Oh, and thank you for the card, Hermione, that was ever so thoughtful."

Hermione beamed, and Ron hung his head as Percy glared at him.

"It felt better staying in that hospital room—where some wizards wouldn't have made it back—knowing I had the support of my friends and family," Percy continued. "I was called home for something important, so I pulled myself up to it, bore the pain, and, well, I got here in time, at least. You were shopping, apparently—Bill was just sharing something with us all."

"And... TIME!" exclaimed George, looking down at his watch. Everyone looked at him, and he looked up and said, "Just short of two minutes. You may have been brutally attacked by—ahem, a _quill—_but at least you're still on your game, eh Perce?"

Percy ignored him, looking dignified, as Ron sniggered.

"What were you sharing, Bill?" asked Ginny. Bill grinned and looked at Fleur.

"'Ahm pregnant!" she said. Hermione and Ginny squealed in unison.

"Congratulations!" said Harry, while Ron's jaw dropped.

"Wow," Ron said. "Merlin's—Merlin's entire bloody ensemble—Bill, you're going to be a dad!"

"This is just wonderful!" cheered Hermione.

"Well, now everyone's here, I hope you'll all be staying for dinner," said Molly as she stood up, her eyes tearing up over her wide smile. "Come, Hermione, let's prepare it together, shall we?"

"Oh, yes!"

Hermione stood and followed Molly into the kitchen with Ginny and Fleur in tow. As soon as the women had entered the house, more shrieks of excitement could be heard as their muffled voices began chatting rapidly.

"You know, Bill, _they're_ going to get bigger," Ron said, cupping his hands in front of his chest. George nodded enthusiastically.

"Er, yes, thank you, Ron," chuckled Bill.

"Shame about her body, though," said George, shaking his head. "The world's lost some great eye-candy."

"Hey!" said Arthur. "Haven't I taught you boys to be respectful? If your mother had heard—"

"Mum's not going to hear anything," said George, waving his hand dismissively. "Of course, Hermione might have seen Ron's little chest gesture there."

"Far from little," sniggered Ron.

"You two are the limit," said Bill.

"What about you, Harry?" said George. "Don't sit there being _polite_, go on, give us your two Sickles."

"Nah, he hasn't got the Knuts," said Ron, and George doubled over with laughter again.

"I have eyes only for Ginny," Harry stated, crossing his arms. "Wait a minute... Ginny..."

It suddenly struck Harry that now, while Ginny's emotions were running high, was an opportune moment for the proposal. He looked over the horizon and saw that the sky had even cleared up a bit, making for a creamy pink sunset through the clouds. Without saying another word, Harry stood and jogged through the open front door of the Burrow. _Time to give it a go., _he thought.

When he stepped into the kitchen, he saw Hermione preparing ingredients for stew under Molly's supervision as Ginny and Fleur helped on their own.

"Oh, Harry, be a dear, would you, go tell Ron and George to come help with the plates," instructed Molly.

"Of course," said Harry, staring determinedly at the back of Ginny's head while she chopped carrots. "Ginny, could I have a word?"

Ginny looked puzzled, but followed Harry outside, where she caught Ron making more obscene gestures to the amusement of Bill and George; Arthur was nowhere in sight.

"Ron!" she said. Ron started, nearly falling off of his bench, then turned around and looked at Ginny attentively. "Mum wants you boys to set the table, and I'd better not catch you ogling Fleur's chest!"

"Hey, I resent that!" said Ron as he and his brothers got up from the picnic table and headed for the house. "How d'you know I wasn't talking about Hermione?"

"Your hands were too far out, you idiot."

"Hey now, let's not fight," said Harry delicately. "Ginny, come look at the sunset, the clouds must have thinned..."

"Is that why you've brought me out here?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow, as she followed Harry across the front yard, past a small pond with an ancient rusty washing machine half-submerged in it, and to the front gate of the Burrow.

"Not just that, but—hey, let's go up on the hill, get a better look, yeah?"

"Oh... you want to visit Fred's grave?"

"No!" Harry blanched. "No, let's just stay here."

"All right."

Ginny looked out at the horizon of black hills under a bright sky of pink and orange ripples, with wisps of white swerving through. Harry was unable to appreciate the view as he stared at Ginny, his hand slipping into the pocket of his robes and grasping the black box that contained his engagement ring.

"You're really beautiful, Ginny," he said. "Your skin, in this light—I always notice it."

Ginny turned to look at him, smiling warmly, her cheeks growing pink. A moment passed where Harry hesitated and they simply stood staring at each other, one half of their bodies illuminated by the sunset, and the other half in shadow.

"Harry!" called a voice from back at the house.

Ginny turned around and saw her father approaching, while Harry remained frozen, staring at her.

"Harry!" repeated Arthur as he neared. "Come, Harry, I've got something to show you."

Harry shook himself back to his senses and allowed Arthur to whisk him off back to the Burrow. By the time they got back to the house, the sun had set, and the sky had darkened to a peacock blue. Arthur led Harry to the back of the house, where Ron and George were standing by Arthur's enchanted Ford Anglia.

"Oh, Merlin," said Harry once he spotted the car; it had been restored to perfect condition, with its windshield mended, its headlights fixed, and its paint polished to a reflective ceil blue.

"Nobody will even notice I've done anything at all," George was saying defensively as Harry and Arthur approached. "If I do things right, that is."

"Then why're you keeping it secret?" asked Ron.

"Because I don't want you taking the piss in the unlikely event that I botch the job."

"What're you two talking about?" asked Arthur.

"George's latest project," explained Ron. "And George, it's not too often I get one up on you. I'm just savoring it, that's all."

"Such honesty!" breathed George, clutching his chest. "Or... _Ronesty_, even!"

"The car looks great," said Harry.

"Isn't it something?" said George, grinning. "You're a miracle worker, Dad, there's no way I could have made this out of that scrap-heap Ron brought back from the forest."

"Yes, well, I was always a dab hand at Charms," said Arthur with a proud grin. "But that's not what I wanted to show you, Harry, come over here."

Arthur led Harry to the other side of the Anglia, where Harry's enchanted motorbike that once belonged to Sirius Black was standing, leaning on its kickstand. Harry noticed at once a new addition to the bike; a shiny golden microphone shaped like a honeycomb between its handlebars.

"It's a walking talkie," said Arthur, smiling brightly.

"A walkie-talkie?"

"Oh, yes, a walkie-talkie. It's magical" — Arthur sounded disappointed at that — "I still don't understand how Muggle teck-nology works, so I enchanted it to communicate with its sister device, which is in the Anglia."

Harry crouched down and peered through the windows of the Anglia and spotted a similar golden microphone hanging from the car's rear-view mirror.

"I've given the car to Ron," Arthur explained. "On the condition that he doesn't fly it where there's even a chance he might be spotted by a Muggle," he added firmly, glancing at Ron, who nodded in agreement.

"Ron!" called a voice from inside the house. "Ron, George, come help us!"

Arthur and George made their way to the front of the house, but Ron grabbed Harry's hand and lingered behind.

"Did you do it?" he asked. "I saw you and Ginny out there."

"No, we were interrupted," sighed Harry.

"Shit. That was your perfect chance, wasn't it?"

"I don't know, a sunset is a bit of a cliche, I think."

"That wasn't just any sunset, it was the sunset of the gods!" Ron raised his arms dramatically. "Hermione was tearing up—a'course, that might have been because she was dicing onions—but still, you're lucky I didn't Accio the ring right out of your pocket and propose to her on the spot!"

"Don't worry, I can find a better way," said Harry. "Good about the car though, yeah?"

"Yeah, 'sept that I can't fly it anywhere but Hogsmeade."

"What're you two doing back here?" said a voice from behind them. They turned and saw Hermione standing ten feet away, looking stern and wearing one of Molly's white aprons. "Still talking about Fleur's breasts?"

"What—no, where'd you hear—I've not been—" Ron stammered, the tips of his ears flushing a telltale red. Hermione's eyebrows were raised, and they shot up higher when Ron growled and threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Sodding hell, Ginny is hereby banned from the Anglia!"


	8. Triforce

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

_Sirius would be proud_, thought Harry in misery; it was his first thought of the day as he awoke in the bedroom he shared with Ginny at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. He had gone to sleep the previous night dwelling on his latest failed attempt at a proposal, while assuring Ginny that nothing was the matter.

_But she probably already knows_. Harry strongly suspected so. Ginny must have been perceptive to his two attempts interrupted, and he had even caught her sharing covert looks with Hermione. Harry felt a surge of indignance at that; Hermione had probably gone and spilled everything to Ginny, ruining his element of surprise. According to Ron, that's important. Of course, most of the advice Ron gave Harry on this was taken directly from a book about ancient warfare in the far east.

_I should just wake her up right now and ask her. I've got a speech to write anyway._ Harry turned over and saw his girlfriend slumbering on her side, facing him. He considered freeing one of her hands from under her pale cheek and slipping the ring over it without waking her. _That'd be surprising enough, wouldn't it?_

Then, something struck Harry: the realization that Ginny, and people in general, had hands, which tended to have fingers of varying sizes, which differed from person to person. Harry sat up with a jolt, struggling not to break into a full panic. His first instinct was to ask Hermione how to secretly discern a person's ring size, but Hermione, it seemed, could not be trusted. _I reckon she already knows, so it won't change anything._ Harry would go through with it anyway, but, with George Weasley threatening to hex him into Flobberworm food should he mess this up, Harry thought it best to maintain the illusion.

Harry was contemplating asking Molly and Arthur when Ginny stirred beside him. Trying to supress his nerves, Harry leaned over her and kissed her forehead. She tried to say something, but ended up crooning drowsily and rubbing her eyes.

"Morning, Ginny," said Harry, feigning as though he had just woken up as well.

"Good morning," Ginny yawned, as Harry kissed her a few more times, moving down to her neck, then her collar, then all the way down to her hand.

"Um..." Ginny frowned at Harry, who was now kissing each one of her fingers quite thoroughly. "Having fun?"

Harry forced a grin and slipped out of bed, then muttered something about a shower and left the room in a hurry. As he made his way down the hall towards the loo, Harry pressed his own fingers to his mouth to compare the feel of his fingers to hers; perhaps he could find out his own ring size and then gauge hers by comparison.

After he reached the loo, Harry closed the door behind him quietly, sat down on the edge of the bath, and whispered, "_Kreacher!_"

_*pop*_

The House-Elf appeared before Harry, standing at attention.

"Yes, Master Harry?" he croaked in his gravelly voice.

"I need my ring."

"Yes, sir." Kreacher nodded and disappeared, then reappeared in two more rapid _*pops*_ and presented Harry with the engagement ring.

"All right," said Harry. "That'll be all, thank you."

Kreacher gave a final bow and Disapparated, leaving Harry alone again. Harry then decided to test the ring on his own ring finger; pushing it over his finger was barely possible, and he had a hard time getting it off.

"_Phew,_" sighed Harry, imagining the maelstrom of gossip that would result from his being seen in public wearing such a ring.

After that, Harry pocketed the ring and left the loo, as it was in high demand in the morning and he could already hear Ron and Hermione bickering on their way up the stairs together from the floor below. Harry offered them a greeting that went unnoticed as he shuffled past them on the staircase.

"Hello, Sirius," said Harry as he passed through the living room; not fully awake, the portrait of Sirius Black grumbled a response.

When he reached the kitchen, Harry sat down to a steamy cup of tea and a breakfast of Hermione's sugar-free biscuits; although Ron refused to eat them on principle, Harry was getting used to them.

Soon, he was joined by Ron and Hermione. Harry recognized that they had gone past bickering and were now locked in a cold silence, which was only broken when Ron pointedly ordered Kreacher to cook his breakfast while glaring at Hermione, who ignored him and started reading her Daily Prophet.

Ginny, who was late for a Quidditch practice, passed through the kitchen in a hurry and wolfed down some toast and jam, then gave Harry a sticky kiss on the cheek and stepped out.

"Hermione, try this on," said Harry after Ginny had gone. He handed his ring to Hermione.

"Given up on Ginny, have you?" Ron quipped.

Hermione ignored Ron again and slid the ring over her finger without hesitation, and Harry wondered if she predicted he would encounter the problem of ring size.

"It's too big," she announced, taking it off and giving it back to Harry.

"I think Ginny's fingers are bigger though," said Harry, now inspecting the ring again. When he looked up, he saw that Ron's eyebrows were knitted in confusion. "I'm trying to figure out her ring size," Harry explained.

"Oh, well, don't let that stop you," said Ron. "Can't you just use a Shrinking Spell if it doesn't fit?"

Harry and Ron then glanced at Hermione expectantly. She sighed and lowered her paper to address them.

"You could do, but it would degrade the material a bit," she explained. "And stopping to adjust the ring would be awkward—though, I still don't think this _perfect_ _proposal_ business is at all necessary. It's not _how_ you do it, it's just that you get it done."

"Why? What's the rush?" asked Ron. Hermione ignored him again, and he rounded on her. "Come on, I said I was sorry!"

"No, you didn't."

"Well that's because I'm not!"

Harry shifted out of his chair and made his escape, leaving Ron and Hermione and their row behind, and decided he would have a much better time writing his speech outside.

* * *

"Are you sure?" asked Elena, struggling to keep up with her fellow Bandits as they raced down the shifting staircases of Hogwarts.

"_Yes_, how many times do I have to tell you?" snapped Roque as he led the way down to the first floor. "He's here, I saw him! Oi, no magic in the halls!" he then barked to a passing sixth-year student twice his size.

"You're not a prefect!" the rulebreaking student shouted behind him.

"Of course not, he's a Bandit!" Blackboot shouted back.

"It's just that I've got that Charms essay to finish and I don't want to waste time," continued Elena. "Honestly, Flitwick shouldn't be allowed to assign homework taller than himself."

"It won't be wasted time," Roque assured her as Munky and Blackboot chuckled. "Besides, you should have gotten started on that one last night. Way to Munk it up."

"Hey!" growled Munky.

"I like to do it all in one go," said Elena. "I hate getting on a roll then stopping halfway through—"

"For the love of the Friar's fat gut, can you lot shut up about homework?" demanded Blackboot as they rounded a corner, passing a statue of a hunched old warlock flying on a broomstick, and made their way to the Entrance Hall.

"_Wait!_" whispered Roque, halting abruptly and causing Munky and Blackboot to nearly run him over.

"Is it him?" asked Elena.

"No, it's Con." Roque nodded up ahead to Con Castle of Gryffindor, who was standing at the end of the corridor with several Gryffindor first-years huddled around him.

"Telling them he's going to reprise his Butterbeer operation, I expect," said Blackboot disgustedly.

"But that's odd, isn't it?" said Elena. "It's not even a Hogsmeade weekend; why's he sneaking out _now?_"

"Doesn't want a teacher spotting him, obviously," said Blackboot dismissively. "No, this is standard mischief, and profitable mischief at that."

"There he is!" said Munky, pointing at the front gate of the castle, whence George Weasley had just arrived walking alongside Professor McGonagall.

"Let's get closer," urged Blackboot.

"What about Con?" said Roque, still scowling in Con's direction. "There he goes, he's headed for the secret passage on the fourth floor!"

"Who cares? Let's find out what George is up to—it might be something to do with the hideout!"

"Oh, fine," Roque sighed.

George and McGonagall were at the end of the hall, walking towards the Transfiguration courtyard. The Bandits could only see their backs as they approached, but they could tell McGonagall was looking very stern, and George was feigning innocence. Then, the Bandits could tell by the movement of McGonagall's big green witch's hat that she had finally nodded in agreement to something George had said.

The Bandits lost sight of them as they turned the corner in the direction of the Transfiguration courtyard. When the Bandits reached the same corner, they came across an empty corridor; George and McGonagall had disappeared.

"Where'd they..."

"You're not wrong," said a voice from behind them, making them jump. It was George. "That kid's up to something, I can tell. Never trust a Gryffindor. They're the biggest bunch of misfits Hogwarts has ever seen."

"George, what are you doing here?" asked Elena.

"What'd McGonagall say?" asked Blackboot over her.

"She's cleared the operation for takeoff," said George. "I'm starting straight away. Now run along back to your common room and stay out of trouble. Go on."

* * *

At midday, Harry found himself in the middle of Diagon Alley, the pockets of his robes packed with folds of blank parchment, corked bottles of ink, and several owl feather quills. He passed through the crowd of witches and wizards, maintaining a forced smile under the stares of their watchful eyes, and headed towards Fortescue Junior's ice cream shop, which had delicious desserts and outdoor seating at which he could write.

When he arrived at the ice cream shop, Harry found that all the seats were occupied and cursed under his breath and made a bespectacled young child next to him gasp as his mother fixed Harry with a glare; Harry thought he had seen the woman before, but couldn't quite place it. Harry decided to skip the ice cream and venture out into Muggle London instead, away from all the gawking passersby.

On his way back out of Diagon Alley, Harry wondered why he hadn't reckoned on the heavy weekend crowd, as they had always been around to pester him. For the first time, Harry was beginning to think that Gilderoy Lockhart knew something about anything; Harry's 'fans' would indeed consider him big-headed should he fail to greet every passing child and smile warmly to every staring stranger. It might even appear in the Prophet if they caught him in a bad mood.

Somewhere near the end of Diagon Alley, Harry had ceased walking and begun wandering, concentrating solely on his thoughts. Without watching where he was going, he ran directly into a very professional-looking young witch and stumbled back, hearing the clatter of the witch's fumbled books hitting the ground.

"Hey!" the witch objected as Harry crouched down and hastened to retrieve her things for her.

"I'm sorry," said Harry as he stood up and handed her the stack of books.

"Do watch where you're going!" The witch looked like she was going to move along in a huff before something caught her eye. "Wait, excuse me—that scar..."

"Yes, I'm Harry Potter," Harry sighed. He held out his hand and she took it.

"My name is Astoria Greengrass," she said. "I've heard a lot about you. I believe you know my friend, Draco Malfoy?"

Harry was taken aback for a second, then he became annoyed. "Look, I don't know what he's told you, but—"

"Astoria!" called a voice that was unfortunately familiar to Harry.

"That'll be him now," said Astoria, still looking mildly offended. "It was nice—er—bumping into you, Harry Potter."

She pushed past him and he watched her join someone down the road that was unmistakably Draco Malfoy, with his slicked-back blonde hair, pale skin, and pointed face. Malfoy made eye contact with Harry and narrowed his eyes, and Harry did the same. They stared each other down for a moment while Astoria tried to drag Malfoy along, until he finally turned away with a whip of his steely grey cloak and strutted off down the road.

As Harry walked past the gate of Diagon Alley and through the Leaky Cauldron, he remembered the Jensen brothers' description of the thief with the silver cloak that robbed their carriage, and how the crime had since been attributed to the famous Midnight Thief. Malfoy's was a velvety grey cloak but it could be mistaken for silver in the moonlight—but what would Malfoy want with a mask that doesn't even work?

After exiting the Leaky Cauldron, Harry soon found himself strolling over the narrow pavement of a bustling London street corner. Now that the Wizarding world was much safer, Harry had learned to take advantage of his anonymity amongst the Muggles. Nobody pointed or stared or seemed remotely interested in Harry's scar as he passed, though his black Wizard's robes earned him a few odd looks; but Harry would much rather be seen as an oddity than the Boy Who Lived.

Harry considered sitting down at a restaurant and writing his speech in a secluded booth — if anyone asked him about his quill and parchment, he could tell them he was practicing calligraphy so long as they didn't notice his rather unrefined handwriting — but scrapped the idea when he realized he wasn't carrying any Muggle money.

Though the autumn temperature was brisk and cold, the sun was shining intensely as Harry came upon a large park, brightening the grass to solid patches of lime green prickled with the orange and yellow of fallen leaves. He entered the park and followed a cobbled stone walkway, passing Muggles that were jogging, chatting on wooden benches, and ignoring Harry for the most part, which he found very refreshing.

At the edge of the park, Harry stopped at a radiant white fountain with sparkling water flowing down its many levels and a statue atop it of someone Harry would never have learned about at Hogwarts. Surrounded by a copse of bushes, the fountain was the perfect place in which to write in private, so Harry plopped down behind it and readied his quill and parchment.

In forty-five minutes, Harry had not written anything more than a list of topics to discuss. His mind was boggled with thoughts of ring sizes and proposal methods. Growing frustrated, Harry tried to push Ginny out of his mind and concentrate on not insulting the Ministry too much with his speech.

"_We're not tools of the Ministry or anybody else... fighting was the only thing I was good at..._ No, that won't do. _Heroes—what can be said about them? I'm one..._ No, no 'hero' talk, they won't know I'm just having a laugh..."

As he scratched out an entire paragraph he had written explaining the Muggle martial artists' journey to seek dirty belts, Harry's thoughts wandered once again to proposals. Perhaps if he found out how Arthur proposed to Molly he would know how to propose to a Weasley woman, or probably what to avoid.

To Harry's knowledge, Arthur Weasley was not much of a romantic. And Malfoy was the Midnight Thief! There he was, standing in his silver cloak, the same one he wore when he raided the Jensen Brothers' Useless Mask Shop! Harry had never seen a picture of _Hero_ author Norb W. Van Elder, but he imagined a tiny, wispy old man wagging one ancient veiny finger at him for plagiarising that bit about Muggle martial artists' belts. Harry tried to say he wouldn't use it, but suddenly he was talking to Ginny — while on one knee — but he was covered in Stinksap again, courtesy of Neville Longbottom. Ginny looked repulsed, and Ron and George looked furious — where had they come from?

As soon as Harry realized he was dreaming, he woke up. Perhaps his robes had been keeping him a bit too warm, or he had gotten too comfortable sitting against the white fountain; Harry had dozed off. Harry felt a cool wetness on his hand and knew without even opening his eyes that he had spilled his ink bottle on his lap. He cursed under his breath.

"I don't think you should write that word," said a voice from above.

At that, Harry did open his eyes, and what he saw made him forget about all the trivial issues that befuddled his mind. Looming over him was a pair of big inquisitive silvery grey eyes betwixt long locks of very blonde hair. Harry had never been so happy to see radishes dangling from someones ears.

"Luna!" Harry exclaimed, hurrying to his feet. "You're back!"

"Hello, Harry," said Luna, and they hugged.

"How long have you been back?"

"Just today."

"Actually, you've returned ahead of schedule, haven't you?" Luna nodded as Harry looked her up and down. "You look so tanned! You used to be the only non-Weasley paler than me!"

"Oh, yes, that can happen when you spend so much time in the presence of Heliopaths," Luna explained matter-of-factly. Harry's lips curled in a sort of reminiscent smile.

"Wait 'till everyone sees you're back," he said excitedly. "I know Dean's missed you. He said so—said once you've gone loony, normal life just gets boring—take it as a compliment. And Neville, of course—er..."

Luna raised an eyebrow in suspicion as Harry gulped and quickly changed the subject.

"So how did you find me here, anyway?"

"Hannah Abbot," said Luna slowly. Harry blanched. "She told me."

"Oh..."

"She was quite short with me, she's usually very nice, but she told me she saw you wandering out to Muggle London looking grumpy. It sounded like something you'd do, so I followed the trail." Luna smiled again. "I missed seeing you."

"I missed seeing you too, Luna. So," said Harry, taking a look around the park, "I think we should get back to Diagon Alley. We're two people in robes, and I've spilled my ink, so I can't write any more. I've been asked to give a speech at the Ministry," he explained.

"That's interesting," said Luna as they walked down the cobbled stone path towards the park exit. "I expect you're nervous?"

"Quite," said Harry. Then he looked at Luna, and realization dawned on him. "Hey, you could help me! You're quite creative, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

Harry made to respond, but then stopped himself; he didn't think 'because of all those imaginary creatures you made up' would sit well with Luna.

"I don't know... _wit beyond measure?_" Harry said finally. Luna nodded sincerely.

"I think a speech is best if the audience doesn't concentrate too much on how good it is. A speech should make people think."

"I suppose, that's..." Harry frowned. "Oh, bugger it, can't you just tell me some good quotes you've heard before?"

"No, I don't think there are any that apply."

Harry sighed, and waited until they were inside the Leaky Cauldron before asking, "Do you at least know of a spell that tells someone's ring size?"

Luna stared at him for a moment as though registering the question, then smiled — Harry couldn't believe it — _mischievously_, and said, "Yes, but it's a close-range spell and the incantation is a bit wordy."

"What is it?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"It's '_Ginny, what is your ring size?_'"

Luna cackled loudly at Harry's narrowed eyes as they stepped through the gateway behind the Leaky Cauldron and into Diagon Alley.

"It has to be a surprise," Harry was saying as they passed the white stoop of Gringotts Bank. Harry stopped suddenly.

"Does it?" said Luna, walking along until she noticed Harry had come to a halt. "Oh, do you need to withdraw money?"

Harry remained silent, looking straight ahead at a man in ash-grey robes sitting on the bottom step of the Gringotts stoop. The man looked up and Harry surveyed him appraisingly, glimpsing his face under his hood; he had dark skin, a birthmark beside one of his eyes in the shape of a butterfly, and a jet-black goatee that circled his mouth; he looked tired, his jaw hanging slightly ajar, with shadows under his eyes.

Luna remained silent as Harry broke eye contact with the man and caught up with her down the road, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Do you know that man?" Luna asked. Harry shook his head. "Oh, then you noticed it too."

"Noticed what?"

"That man fits the description of a Sunny," Luna explained. Harry merely stared at her, but she continued without hesitation, "Of course you know the Sunnies, they've been investigated in the Quibbler. They feed on your negative thoughts, leaving you with only happiness. The Dementors were their arch nemeses, of course, but now they've been erradicated, there have been more Sunny sightings."

"Right..." Harry cleared his throat, looking back at the grey-robed man.

"I wonder if he would do an interview?" said Luna. "Daddy would be pleased, he said the Sunnies would start cropping up in every magical area—"

"Luna, he's not a 'Sunny,'" snapped Harry. He then tore his eyes from the grey-robed man to look at Luna; she looked annoyed. "I mean—because he didn't feed on anything of mine. I felt nothing."

"Oh. I didn't either, but I was already quite happy to see you again, so I thought it impossible to tell."

"No, I think... I think that man might be up to something. Actually, I'm sure he is, but I can't remember _what_..."

"I don't think you're supposed to sit on those steps."

"It's not that. He's got a grey cloak, and the Midnight Thief supposedly wears silver. That, and I've seen that man loitering around Gringotts before."

"No, I don't think he's the Midnight Thief," said Luna thoughtfully. "He doesn't seem very charming or handsome."

"What?" Harry growled. "The Prophet made up that stupid description. No one's actually seen his face."

"He's stopped loitering now," observed Luna.

Harry turned his head and indeed saw a grey cloak shifting through the crowd towards the end of the road. He found this very suspicious, and thought perhaps he may have spooked the suspect into fleeing.

"Kreacher!" said Harry, acting fast before the suspect got away.

_*pop*_

Kreacher the House-Elf Apparated obediently into middle of the street, bowing before Harry. Luna seemed unsurprised by Kreacher's sudden appearance. Harry urged Kreacher to stand up before any passersby noticed he was having House-Elves bow to him.

"Yes, Master Harry?" said Kreacher, casting shifty glances at the surrounding crowd and looking uneased.

"I need you to follow that man, find out his name, and where he lives," said Harry quickly, pointing towards the end of the road. "That man there, in the grey cloak."

"Yes, Master Harry," agreed Kreacher, and he prowled off down the street to tail the grey-robed man.

"And don't forget to eat and sleep this time!" Harry called after Kreacher, recalling the last time he had assigned such a job to Kreacher and — Harry felt he could use the presence of a Sunny just thinking about it — Dobby.

"That's odd, he must have been eating and sleeping for many years now," said Luna. Harry frowned. "It seems he'd have gotten the hang of doing it without his master's orders—but then I do forget to tie my shoes on occasion."

"I can't say I know what you're talking about," Harry admitted. "But I think it's time I tell you about a very knowledgeable magical historian by the name of Norb W. Van Elder..."

* * *

"Welcome to my home, Luna," said Harry as he guided her past the heavy, battered front door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. "It used to belong to Sirius's family, and the whole lot of them were Slytherins, except Sirius," he informed as Luna surveyed the long hallway.

"Then was the door-knocker his doing?" she asked.

"No, that was something I did after we moved in," said Harry proudly. "Ginny, Ron, and Hermione live here too. After living at the Burrow, I rather like having a big family around."

"Harry?" called a voice from the other room, just before Ron came ambling into the hall. "Harry, we're—"

Ron stopped in his tracks when he saw Luna, and his face lit up. "Luna!"

"Hello—_oof!_" Luna squeaked as Ron hugged her. "It's good to see you, Ron."

"You're back, then?" Ron asked as he pulled away.

"Yes. Daddy knew I wasn't happy being away from my friends, so we've returned early."

"Oh, by the way, Ron," said Harry, "I saw Malfoy in Diagon Alley and he was wearing a silver cloak."

Ron frowned. "Well bully for Malfoy, what's that got to do with—"

"The Midnight Thief wears silver!"

"Oh bloody hell, you think _Malfoy _is the Midnight Thief? Did you get any work done, or what?"

"Plenty!"

"He was sleeping when I found him," said Luna indifferently. Harry threw his arms up in frustration. "But Ron, you won't believe it, Harry and I happened upon a Sunny."

"A what?"

"I'll just make some tea," was Harry's plan of escape from that conversation. "Hang on, Ron, where's Ginny?"

"Oh!" Ron smacked his palm to his forehead. "I nearly forgot, she's gone to the Burrow with Hermione. When Ginny heard what I'd said this morning, she suggested that I be the one to stay stay behind and wait for you."

"What did you say, anyway?"

"Oh, it's stupid..."

"Obviously, but what was it?"

"I made some remark about how I'd—er, well—I'd _beaten_ Viktor Krum. _Oh, and I suppose that makes me your prize trophy?_" he recited in a high voice that made Luna giggle.

Harry sighed, rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and said, "And I'm guessing your response wasn't something smart like 'of course not.'"

"I said that, well, I'm the king, and the king usually gets to enjoy the spoils of war—well it was only a laugh! I joke around like that all the time!"

Harry merely shook his head slowly.

"I don't know, some days she's just snitty for no reason. I think Bill once told me something about some sort of _mental cycle_... aptly named, that. I don't know which is more brutal, her cycle or mine."

"Why'd they go to the Burrow anyway?" Harry asked, suppressing a smile.

"Mum's watching Teddy and the Mental Sisters wanted to grace her with their company—"

"TEDDY?" shouted Harry, his glasses falling askew. "Ron, we've got to go!"

"What are you on about?"

"Teddy was there when I asked your mum and dad permission to marry Ginny! He wouldn't stop repeating it!"

"Bloody hell, that's right!" Ron turned to Luna. "You should come too, if you fancy dinner at my Mum's?"

"I do," she replied. "So, this 'Teddy,' is he a pet parrot?"

"No, you know Teddy, he's Professor Lupin's son," said Harry.

"Oh, yes, and you're his godfather." Harry nodded, then turned on the spot and Disapparated with a loud _*crack*_.

Harry, Ron, and Luna arrived on the scene at the Burrow on the lookout for any sign of a turquoise head of hair. Harry led the way past the rickety wooden gate, down the long dirt trail that swerved around the pond, and through the open front door of the Weasley home.

The kitchen was very busy, with dishes tending to themselves, a thick woollen hat being crafted by enchanted knitting on the kitchen table, and a knife sharpening itself against a stone slab on the counter, but neither Teddy nor Ginny were present.

There was no sign of anyone until they passed through the backdoor and into the garden. Hermione and Ginny were mounted on broomsticks, hovering 10 feet above the grass in the field behind the Burrow, which was well hidden by the surrounding thicket of trees and served as the Weasley family's low-level Quidditch area.

Harry approached the field in great haste, and finally spotted Teddy sitting below Ginny and Hermione, watching the game with amusement. Ginny was lobbing an old worn Quaffle through a floating wreath of twigs that served as a makeshift goalpost, which Hermione was supposed to be defending. Hermione was wide-eyed and clinging tightly to Ron's Cleansweep Eleven, doing her best to stay afloat.

"_Goffadda!_" Teddy exclaimed when he saw Harry rushing to him.

"Hey Ginny!" breathed Ron once he and Luna had caught up with Harry. "Where are Mum and D—"

Ron's sentence ended abruptly when he caught sight of Hermione. As he pulled his godson up into his arms, Harry followed Ron's gaze and couldn't help but smirk; Hermione clad in Ginny's full Quidditch gear was a peculiar sight to Harry.

"Luna!" Ginny exclaimed when she and and Hermione descended to the ground.

"Hello," said Luna with her familiar small smile as she accepted greetings and hugs from Ginny and Hermione.

"Oh, it's wonderful you're back—you _are_ back, aren't you?" Hermione asked her. "I thought you weren't set to return for at least two years?"

"That's true, but I missed my friends. I think Daddy resented that, but he was understanding."

"Hey Luna," said Harry after hoisting Teddy onto his shoulder and carrying him over. "I'd like you to meet Teddy Lupin, my godson."

"Hi!" said Teddy, white-blonde color flooding into his hair to imitate Luna.

"Hello, Teddy. That's interesting magic. I like the color."

"Luna likes your hair, Teddy, say 'thank you,'" said Harry softly.

"Thanks!"

"Hermione," said Ron, still looking her up and down and staring at her suit of protective padding. "Where are my mum and dad?"

"Oh! They're out on a_ date_," she replied, her eyes sparkling happily; she seemed to have forgotten she was angry with him. "They said something about visiting a tea shop in the village down the road. Ginny and I offered to watch Teddy ourselves."

"Then who's going to cook?" Ron looked worried, and Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"That's always your first concern, isn't it? Well, I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable—"

"Don't rise to it, Hermione," urged Ginny. "Last time you and Ron had a row, you two gave Teddy such a fright."

"Fine," said Ron. "Anyway, you won't believe who Harry thinks is the Midnight Thief. _Malfoy_."

Harry wanted to deny this, but he was busy whisking Teddy away from the scene. He had carried Teddy half-way to the house when he was stopped by a faint _*pop*_ and Kreacher the House-Elf materializing before him.

"What is it, Kreacher?" Harry asked as he bobbed Teddy up and down on his shoulder to soothe him after the sudden appearance of Kreacher, who wasn't what Harry would describe as 'child-friendly.'

"Kreacher has retrieved the information Master Harry desires of the man in Diagon Alley," whispered Kreacher. He then glanced at the whimpering Teddy suspiciously and added, "Perhaps Kreacher should wait until he can speak to Master Harry in, ahem, _private_..."

"Er—no, he's all right," Harry assured, setting Teddy down on his feet in front of Kreacher; Kreacher was just a head taller. "Kreacher is our friend, Teddy. What do we say? 'Wotcher!'"

Teddy took one look at Kreacher's severely wrinkled face, then turned and made a dash past Harry towards the conversing group in the Quidditch field as fast as his little legs could sprint.

"_The little half-breed fears old Kreacher_..." Kreacher thought aloud.

"Hey!"

"Kreacher apologizes, sir." Kreacher bowed low.

"So what's the information?"

"The man owns a residence in Hogsmeade Village," began Kreacher. "His name is—"

"Hang on, how in Barnabus's name did you find that out so quickly?" asked Harry, gobsmacked.

"At the end of the road in Diagon Alley, the man made ready to Disapparate..."

"And you grabbed onto him?"

"No. He Disapparated, but not before his stomach gave a great groan not unlike Master Ronald's. Kreacher thought of only two areas to which a wizard can legally Apparate for food: his home, and Hogsmeade Village. Kreacher Apparated to Hogsmeade at once and found that they were one in the same."

"Good on you!" said Harry, delightfully shocked. "What's his name?"

"Wielder, sir. Sef Wielder."

"That's an odd name." Harry paused to think, then decided any more investigation could be done officially through the Auror's Office. "All right, Kreacher, thanks for the help. Go on home."

"Thank you." Kreacher bowed again.

_*pop*_

With Kreacher gone, Harry suddenly realized that he had let Teddy escape him. He whirled around and, with a sigh of relief, saw that Ron had taken Teddy away from Ginny and was teaching him to mount a broom.

Harry made his way to Ron and Teddy just as Teddy climbed aboard Ron's Cleansweep Eleven, looking determined. Ron gave little Teddy a push on the back and he was off; Harry's heart soared as he watched Teddy fly across the field, even though he was so close to the ground his feet were digging twin grooves in the grass; Teddy's hair had gone a deep Ginny red the moment he took off.

"Yes!" shouted Harry jubilantly as he and Ron jogged alongside Teddy. "You're doing it! Now tilt down gently to land—_gently!_"

But it was too late; Teddy had pushed the handle of the Cleansweep into the ground below and crash landed into the grass, but he had been so low to the ground already that it made no difference. As he sat back up, shaking some sense back into his head and draining the red color out of his hair, Harry and Ron scooped him up and held him on their shoulders victoriously as Ginny and Hermione applauded from afar.

"Brilliant!" cheered Harry. "You've made your godfather proud, Teddy! How'd you get him to fly, Ron?"

"Wasn't me," chuckled Ron. "It was Luna, really. She asked Teddy if he had learned to fly yet, and Teddy said he couldn't—well, you know Luna,_ wit beyond treasure_ or whatever—she asks him 'why?' 'I'm scared!' 'Why?' 'Dunno!' 'Then how do you know you're scared?' 'Dunno!' 'Have you tried?'"

Harry was grinning broadly at this point.

"Leave it to Luna to make a two-year-old contemplate the meaning of his existence," he laughed.

"Truth be told, I think he just did it because the alternative was continuing the conversation with her—even _he_ knows she's weird, and he's got blue hair!" Ron joked, though he was grinning appreciatively at Luna as they made their way back to the girls.

"Is it because of that nice Elf that saved us from the Death Eaters?" Luna was asking Hermione as they approached.

"No, actually, I didn't know Dobby very well when I formed S.P.E.W.," Hermione replied. "Oh, Harry, Ron, Luna's had a great idea!"

"House-Elves?" asked Harry.

"No, absolutely not, actually!" said Hermione, grinning. Harry frowned. "You see, Luna says, and I quite agree, that the very term 'House-Elf' implies that they are slaves to their master's house."

"Well, yeah—er—" Ron faltered at Hermione's glare. "Go on..."

"_So_, I thought our next move should be to get everyone to just call them Elves. I think many more people will object to their horrible enslavement if they're treated as any other race, like the Goblins or the Centaurs."

"So now they're just Elves," said Harry. "Got it."

"And I think the timing is right for a change of direction," Hermione continued. "Now the Hous—I mean, the _Elves_ have a presence at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and now the founding members of S.P.E.W. are all to receive Order of Merlin, we're ready to start campaigning for full liberation."

"I thought it was H.U.R.L. now," said Ginny, confused.

"No, that's a group for House-Elves. S.P.E.W. is for witches and wizards. But forget about that, because I'm starting a new group—er, a _front_, if you will."

"Almost like... a House-Elf Liberation Front?" asked Ron, smirking.

"No, not at all," said Hermione briskly. "It's the Elf Liberation Front. E.L.F.!"

"That's much better," observed Harry.

"Yeah, whoever came up with that must be pretty sharp," added Ron.

"Thank you, I appreciate that," said Hermione, her nose up. "I trust you'll join up?"

"As long as there aren't any badges, yeah."

"Now that's sorted, I'm hungry," said Ginny, yawning. "Hermione?"

"Oh, right, your mother left all the ingredients for me on the counter," said Hermione. She then turned around with a whip of her bushy hair and marched off back to the house, looking determined.

"At least it's got a better name now," reasoned Ginny.

"Yeah, it's almost too good," said Ron, rubbing his chin in thought. "Wonder how long it would take to introduce a word into everyone's vocabulary. I just think there aren't enough words for spewing your guts out, y'know? 'Merlin, I knew that chicken had gone rotten, I think I'm gonna _elf'_—'I heard Lee's got a trick where he swallows a live fish then _elfs_ it back up unharmed'—'you know, before every Puddlemere United match, Oliver Wood _elfs_ all over the mens loo.' Yeah, it's got a nice ring to it."


	9. Red On You

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

"Un-fucking-believable!" growled Ron as he stormed through the wood, stomping on twigs and yellow leaves and iced-over puddles.

"Ron!" breathed Hermione, jogging to keep up with his long strides. "Magorian has a point, don't you think—"

"No, and I was just about to let him know _exactly_ what I think before you dragged me off!"

"I hardly think that starting a fist fight with the centaurs is the best course of action—slow down, Ron!"

Ron stopped abruptly as they reached the faint dirt trail that led back to Hogsmeade village, upon which Ron's enchanted Ford Anglia was parked.

"I'm human," said Ron. Hermione blinked. "Not an animal!" he added. "This curse I've got—it isn't all that I am. I take my Wolfsbane and I'm harmless and hidden on the full moon, and everything's fine. It's not like I was bitten as a child or anything... my body fights the curse."

"I know that, but you—you infected one of their young," said Hermione delicately.

"Oh, _that_ must be why they don't like me!" Ron threw his hands in the air theatrically. "Why didn't I think of that? Looks like we're all sorted then."

"But you must admit—"

"She wasn't even theirs!" Ron pressed. "She was with Deralon's troop, remember? And I took care of her. So, as long as it's not the night of the full moon, I won't be biting anyone."

"Deralon's troop exemplifies the reason Magorian banished you from his territory," said Hermione. "Don't look at me like that. These things have to be handled delicately. You must take every precaution against a violent outcome, which you didn't manage to do last time. They're looking out for her, and I'm looking out for you."

"Really!" Ron laughed coldly. "You're just looking out for me, is that it? You weren't here to ask _Maggie_ to represent the centaurs at the Ministry? And when he said no, you just had to press the issue, didn't you?"

"If you're insinuating that my offering Magorian a chance to represent his people is why he won't let you visit Helinora—"

"It didn't help!"

"He didn't do it because he was angry, he did it for her!" Ron opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione held her hand up. "Ron, I know you don't need reminding of this, but you changed her life completely when you bit her. You took care of her when she needed it but now it's best to let her live as a centaur. Even the Burrow isn't tucked-away enough to house a centaur without arousing Muggle suspicion."

"It's not going to do her any good to take away her friends," said Ron.

"She'll make new friends. She'll be all right." Hermione gave an encouraging nod. "Besides, perhaps when she's of age we'll have a new centaur representative on our hands. Someone who's seen the world from their side and ours."

"Great, something to look forward to," droned Ron, rolling his eyes. "So, do you want to visit Grawp?"

"Not particularly."

"Scorpo?"

"Definitely not."

"Back to the joke shop then," concluded Ron as he walked around the car to the driver's seat.

Ron and Hermione drove along the bumpy dirt path towards Hogsmeade village without conversation. When they reached the old wooden gate that blocked off the path, Ron engaged the car's flight mode and they took off into the sky, flying over ancient little buildings and trees, clouds of exhaust puffing in their wake. Ron smirked as he noticed that Hermione had planted her hands firmly on the dashboard, her eyes shut tightly.

On their way towards the new Hogsmeade branch of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, the silence was broken by a distorted, intermittent voice buzzing from the radio device attached to the car's rear-view mirror.

"Ron, are you there?" said Harry's voice through the speaker. "Do you copy? Over."

Ron reached under the mirror and pulled the hanging brass microphone closer to his face.

"Copy," he said into the honeycomb-shaped device. "Something wrong, Harry? Over."

"You are aware we're to investigate a suspect in the Midnight Thief case? Over."

"Blimey, I thought that was yesterday. Over."

"If it were yesterday we'd have already done it. Over."

"I thought we'd missed it, cheeky git. What's the time? Over."

"Time for you to get over here. Where are you? Over."

"Flying over Hogsmeade. Just visited Helinora. Hermione's here too. Over."

"Oh. Over."

"Great transmission, mate."

A few moments' silence passed.

"You forgot to say 'over,'" said Hermione.

"Over." Ron glanced at Hermione; to his annoyance, she was still clamping her eyes shut tightly. "Really, Hermione, stop being so dramatic. It's like you don't trust me."

"Not while the Whomping Willow is in sight, I don't."

Ron was glaring at Hermione and contemplating doing a mid-air loop when Harry spoke again.

"Find a place to land and Apparate here on the double," he said. "This is the first decent assignment Robards has given us in a long time. Don't want to bugger it up. Over."

"Who else is he going to give it to? We're practically the only trainees left. Besides, I might be a bit late; apparently there's this Muggle club and the only requirement to join is that you've had sex while at least one mile off the ground. Over."

Hermione's jaw dropped and she finally opened her eyes to stare at Ron in outrage as he waggled his eyebrows at her.

"Uh, congratulations, mate," spoke Harry's voice from the radio. "Over."

Hermione snatched the microphone away from Ron and hissed into it, "I'll have you know we're doing no such thing! And if I were, you should be appalled that I'd do so while he's flying a car! What, do you think I'm some slag he picked up at King's Cross, Harry? OVER!

"And you!" she growled, looking at Ron. "Are we really a mile off the ground?"

"We're not off the ground at all," said Ron, amused; Hermione turned to her window and saw that they had touched down on the roof of the joke shop.

"Right." Harry's tentative voice sounded from the speaker again. "I think we should speak in code from now on. Over."

"Ten-four," said Ron, hesitating for a moment at Hermione's narrowed eyes. "I mean, since H.G. is being a right P.A., I think we should keep the M.T. on the D.L. until I reach H.Q., 'else I might end up F.U.B.A.R. Over."

Ron smiled again as he observed Hermione staring at the car's roof and biting her lip in thought, attempting to decypher the code.

"Um, Hermione," said Harry. "You're 'H.G.'" — Ron's eyes widened — "and 'P.A.' means 'pain in the—'"

"HARRY!" breathed Ron in horror, as Hermione batted him on the shoulder. "Why, Harry! WHY! OVER!"

"Maybe you'll think twice now before telling me about your little escapades with Hermione—and what was that, Hermione, about not distracting Ron while he's driving? Over."

"We've already landed!"

"You didn't say 'over,'" said Ron weakly.

"Over and out!"

* * *

As the Ministry lift arrived at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and its golden grilles swung open, Ron found himself face-to-face with Harry, who had apparently been waiting for him in the lobby.

"You're late," said Harry, his arms crossed. "And Robards has just finished lecturing _me_ for it."

"Sorry," said Ron.

"Don't worry, that black eye Hermione gave you looks like punishment enough."

Thinking that Harry wouldn't be saying that if he knew what Hermione's guilt would lead to later on, Ron made to exit the lift, but Harry stopped him with a hand to his chest and stepped inside. The gates closed and the floor jerked upwards as they began to ascend.

"I don't want to go back in there," said Harry at Ron's questioning look. "Ernie and Clarinda are investigating another suspect in the case. Malfoy, probably."

"Malfoy? Come off it, Harry."

"Would you put it past him? Anyway, we're paying a visit to Walter Lesae."

"The umpteenth barmy author my mum fancies? Why?"

"Don't you see? He's rich and dashing and all that, just as the Prophet described. I'm sure Robards knows better but he's having us waste our time anyway, for public image."

"Just like they did Hagrid?"

"Exactly. This place needs a change, I'm telling you. I used to think it was funny that Kingsley was heading up the Aurors' search for Sirius Black and sending them on false trails, but now it just makes the whole department seem pathetic. Same rubbish, different Minister."

"S'not Kingsley's fault. Robards is an old Ministry official. He's been around a long time, and the Ministry's been this way for a long time. At least Kingsley's making a change. You won't see Kingsley greased by sods like Lucius Malfoy who've got loads of gold to throw away."

"But Lucius Malfoy got off!"

"True. Well, the Wizengamot are old too. He's still not allowed at the Ministry. It's a start, right?"

"Why are you making excuses for the Ministry?"

Harry leered at Ron in accusation as they arrived at the atrium and stepped out onto its polished wooden floor.

"I'm not, I think this place is long overdue for a change, but why don't we wait until we're full Aurors before starting the revolution, yeah? When you're head of the department, and Hermione's Chief Mugwump or something, then we'll start worrying about all this."

"Fine," agreed Harry as he led Ron to the Apparition Zone at the end of the hall. "So where d'you hope to end up, anyway?"

"Grandmaster of Quidditch."

_*crack*_

Harry took Ron by side-along Apparition to a gravelly road surrounded by fields of grass that stretched out over hills on the horizon like a desert of endless green, broken only by the clumps of houses by the road. Clouds overhead extended as far as the eye could see, though the sky was still bright enough that Harry and Ron had to squint to shield their eyes.

The two Auror trainees began walking down the road, until they came upon a tall fieldstone manor beyond a barrier of bristly leafless hedges, at the end of a vast garden that extended longer than Harry's best gnome toss.

"So, Harry," said Ron as they arrived at the front door. "What d'you reckon the chances are that the owner of _this_ property would bother nicking a Jensen mask?"

"Same as the chances that the mask actually works," replied Harry.

"How do you want to proceed, then?" Ron smirked. "Friend and foe? Decoy dupe? Commando raid?"

"Let's just ask the usual questions—stay out of trouble," sighed Harry. He knocked on the door and shouted, "Ministry of Magic!"

"Why do we say that, anyway?" said Ron. "That just gives him time to hide all the evidence, doesn't it?"

"Because we always go by the book," said Harry, grinding his teeth.

The door opened, and all Harry saw was a very large man's chest; even Ron had to look up to meet the eyes of the man that answered the door. The tall and ghoulish man looked as though he had just woken up, with his blocky jaw hanging ajar and glazed-over eyes that stared blankly over Harry's head under a tangle of shaggy gray hair.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice as deep as Harry expected it to be.

There was a short silence as Harry looked the man up and down with narrowed eyes; he was wearing sharp silver dress robes that blended with his grayish skin.

"Ministry of Magic," said Ron awkwardly, nudging Harry with his elbow. "Can we speak with Walter Lesae?"

The man nodded silently and closed the door.

"Did you see that?" said Harry, nodding towards the door.

"I know what you're thinking," said Ron warily. "But if I were robbed by that bloke, I think the first thing I'd notice is that he's taller than a tree, not what he's wearing."

The door opened again, and Harry recognized the handsome bearded man behind it from his beaming picture on Molly's spellbook.

"Hello. I'm lord of the manor. How may I help you gentlemen?"

"We're from the Auror Office," said Harry. "I'm Harry Potter and this is my partner Ron Weasley. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Lesae's eyebrows shot up for a moment at the mention of Harry's name.

"But why... _ah,_" he said, breaking into a smile. "Of course. Do come in."

As Harry and Ron entered the house, Lesae gestured towards a coatrack by the door that had, instead of hooks, little carved wooden hands that came alive and grabbed at their traveling cloaks as they passed.

Lesae led them through the halls, following a trail of brown hardwood, passing by chalky white walls and many lamps that illuminated the entire house in a golden haze. Bookshelves covered most of the walls from floor to ceiling, packed entirely with books; Harry read such titles as _Mysterious Dragon Blood, Modern Vampire Accounts, _and _Creatures of the Night_ from their spines. Finally, they stopped at one of the many doors lining the hall. The tall man in silver robes was waiting beside the door.

"This is my manservant, Bolo," said Lesae. "Bolo, fetch some tea for our guests."

Bolo nodded and stalked off down the hall.

"I... used to own a House Elf," explained Lesae, frowning, as he guided them through the door and into a small lounge. "Er, I accidentally set her free one day and I think she got eaten by a werewolf. She disappeared on the full moon."

Ron perked up. Harry was surprised by the sorrow he saw in Lesae's eyes, and averted his own by looking down at his feet.

"Though, perhaps it's for the best. With recent trends at the Ministry, the laws concerning House Elves do seem to be changing. Please, sit."

Lesae sat down in a nearby armchair and gestured to a puffy brown couch opposite him, and Harry and Ron sank into it.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Lesae," began Harry.

"Walt, please."

"All right, Walt, where were you on the night of..." Harry faltered, then huddled close to Ron and whispered, "What night was it?"

"I don't remember, it was so pointless," Ron whispered back.

"I believe the Jensen Brothers' Mask Market was burglarized on the fourth," Walt whispered, leaning into their huddle.

"Right," said Harry, clearing his throat. "Where were you then?"

"I was catching up on my writing at the Pair-a-Dice Inn in London," Walt explained.

The door behind him opened and in walked Bolo the towering butler, carrying a teapot, three little white cups, and an assortment of snacks all on a big silver tray.

"I'm certain the barman will absolve me," said Walt as Bolo poured tea for Harry and Ron. "Bolo, fetch our guests a pair of souvenir shirts."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," said Harry as Bolo nodded and left.

"But I insist. You're Aurors, after all."

Harry was technically only a trainee, but he felt no need to correct Walt; he glanced over at Ron and saw that Ron wasn't going to be correcting anyone either, with his mouth full of biscuits.

"And how did you know we were looking for a burglar?" said Harry. "I never said anything about that."

"Oh, come now," said Walt distractedly as he watched Ron eat. "I do read the Prophet in the morning, you know. In these dark times, it pays to keep current. I knew the Ministry would come knocking at my door, intimating that I'm of 'Midnight Thief' timber. I do seem the type, don't I?"

"The type?"

"Sly, handsome, and in great excess of time and gold. Yes, as soon as I read about the Midnight Thief's heist of Borgin and Burke's in Knockturn Alley, I knew I would be a suspect, despite my alibi being solid as granite."

"Don't believe everything you read," said Harry bitterly. "Anyway, you're not a suspect because of that. You've got a record."

"Ah, yes, my criminal record," Walt sighed. "I am ashamed to say that I once fancied myself as a sort of... _Dumbledorean_ figure in that I believed myself to be above the law."

"It says here you were convicted of crimes against protected non-human beings and possession of a Class B Non-Tradeable."

"Mermaid hearts," said Walt matter-of-factly. "I thought the whole affair was entirely within the law. I did not kill the mermaid, after all."

"Why would you want a mermaid heart?" asked Harry.

"Just another bit of important magical research quashed by our venerable Ministry. Mermaid hearts are integral to the development of a groundbreaking new poison."

"Pardon?" said Ron thickly through a mouthful of food, looking as though he were considering spitting it out.

"A poison that, upon ingestion, consumes only those reaches of the human body afflicted with curses. Could you imagine? Vampirism, lycanthropy, any number of magical hexes all cleansed by none other than disease..."

The door opened again; Bolo had returned with two folded T-shirts.

"So it was all in the name of research?"

"I'm a spellmaker. I've made a fortune in household spells and other helpful charms. But I'm also a scholar. Mr. Weasley, that's going to bother me all day if I don't do something about it. May I?"

Walt drew a wand from the large sleeve of his robe; Harry and Ron flinched, their hands reaching for their own wands.

"Be still, this is not an attack." Walt raised his wand and took aim at Ron.

There was a quick zap of light that flashed over Ron's eyes. Ron blinked several times, seeing stars, then looked around at Harry.

"What just happened?"

"Your eye," said Harry, raising his eyebrows. "It's healed."

Ron brushed his fingers over his cheek where Hermione had struck him before; it was no longer sensitive.

"Not bad," he said to Walt.

"Yeah, I've seen your book," Harry added, grinning at the realization that this man had already surpassed Gilderoy Lockhart, who would likely have removed Ron's eyeballs completely.

"I've seen yours," said Walt, smirking. "Unless you're some other Harry Potter, besides the fabled hero?"

"Er, I didn't really ask to be fabled, but I'm him, yes. Well, that'll be all, I think—"

"No," said Walt quickly. "Stay a while, won't you?"

"Sorry, no. We're on duty."

"Ah, it wouldn't hurt—how about a round of Quidditch? I hear you're quite the flyer, after all."

"Quidditch? Here?"

"I've got my own field in the garden. Bolo!" he called suddenly. Bolo looked up, attentive. "We shall require Quidditch equipment. Brooms, padding, and a Quaffle, I think."

Bolo silently agreed and swept out of the room again.

"You have Quidditch posts set up in a Muggle area?" asked Harry.

"If any of the Muggles come asking about them, I tell them it's for an American sport, and they tend to lose interest."

Harry considered Walt's offer, weighing the options. Quidditch on a private field in the country, or cursebreaking time trials in the dank Ministry dungeons? Truthfully, there wasn't much left to be done with Walt Lesae other than to confirm his alibi at the Pair-a-Dice Inn, but, as Harry saw it, if Mr. Robards would knowingly send he and Ron on a fruitless waste of time in the afternoon, then it wouldn't matter if he wasted a little more.

"Yeah," Harry decided. "I'll fly. Ron?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Ron replied.

They played well into the evening. Bolo had brought them a set of brand new Nimbus Millennium broomsticks, which Harry found to be nearly on par with the speed and handling of his Firebolt. Harry wondered if the Firebolt had become outdated. They couldn't play proper Quidditch with only three players, but Walt knew of several one-on-one and free-for-all variations that kept them flying until sunset.

"I urge you to stay for dinner," Walt was saying as they made their way back to the manor.

"We can't, we've got to head back to the Department," said Harry. "I don't know what we're going to tell them."

"Nonsense," said Walt, with what looked like a forced grin. "You're on a big case here. I'm sure they won't mind if you exercise a bit of thoroughness."

"Yeah, we're here to investigate someone for fitting the Prophet's barmy description of the Midnight Thief," laughed Ron. "Really important case."

"Bolo!" snapped Walt once they arrived inside the house. Bolo appeared quickly. "A bottle of Ogden's, please, and dinner for three tonight."

Harry felt that Walt was intentionally setting plans in motion before he could decline, but he didn't mind much; Robards's reprimanding this morning had left him feeling rather cynical, and he thought a drink might help.

On their way down the hall, Harry spotted a set of trophy cases that contained several plaques and little gold figurines of men in combative stances.

"Tai Chi," explained Walt when Harry pointed this out. "Not at all a great feat on my part, so very few wizards partake in the martial disciplines. On top of that I've noticed a recent lack of respect for my art. Never underestimate the power of Chi."

Further along the hallway, they came across an open doorway that led to a dimly lit room. Harry spotted an odd crescent symbol on the floor inside the room, illuminated by the light of the hallway, before Walt promptly closed the door.

"The giftwrapping room," said Walt calmly, though he looked quite perturbed. Harry and Ron pressed on with narrowed eyes.

They sat down at a long table in the dining room, sharing a bottle of Firewhiskey and conversing over the dancing flames of candles between them, which seemed to get warmer the more they drank. His eyes drooping already from the Firewhiskey, Ron dizzily pointed out a magical portrait overlooking the dining room table. Its occupant, a pretty blonde woman in a periwinkle dress, was staring silently through an open window beside her.

"Who's that?" Ron asked.

"Oh, just a woman," said Walt, waving a dismissive hand. "I liked the portrait, so I bought it."

The woman in the portrait looked out at them for a moment, sighed, then refocused her gaze back to her painted window.

As the liquor continued flowing, in anticipation of their upcoming meal, the subject of conversation turned to food.

"I'm simply expressing the opinion that those who can't discern the difference between real and imitation crab meat should be outcast and forced to live as sewer mutants in the underworld," said Walt. "Is that wrong?"

"No, 'course n-not," said Harry drowsily.

"Is that wrong?" Walt asked again.

"Well, yes."

"I've never had either, meself," Ron admitted. Walt slammed his glass down on the table in outrage.

"We'll see about that!" he said.

Ron smiled eagerly and soon found himself clumsily forking bits of delicious crab meat into his mouth. Its taste did not blend well with firewhiskey.

"So, Walt, I reckon you must get plenty of attention from the witches," Ron slurred over his plate. "Tell Harry here how to—_*hic*—_properly p-propose to my bloody sister."

"How should I know?" Walt replied defensively. "Bedding them is one thing—one thing I'm very good at—but I don't have a wife. If I did, I wouldn't need Bolo here."

"I'm just—Ron, I'm just going to get it done, I don't care anymore," said Harry. "Hermione's right... she's always right."

"Well I could have told you that!"

After dinner, Walt again insisted that they stay longer. Harry got the impression from the man's jovial affectations that he was lonely. When Ron politely declined, something in Walt's expression triggered a memory that sounded as a voice in Harry's head. _I used to own a House Elf. She was bitten by a werewolf, I think._

Harry understood now; Walt's House Elf purportedly being killed by a creature that's only dangerous to humans; the portrait of the woman in the dining room; the way Walt regarded Ron as he ate. Harry thought these things seemed curious at first, but it all made sense when he realized that, somehow, Walt knew that Ron was a werewolf, and Harry would be damned if the House Elf of which Walt spoke wasn't actually the woman in the portrait.

"I can't trust you to Apparate in that condition," Walt was saying as Harry's intoxicated mind raced. "You can stay in the guest room, and I'll have Bolo wake you early for breakfast. How about it?"

Though Harry was suspicious of Walt's intentions, he did agree; neither he nor Ron were adept at Apparition, and both could barely stand straight at the moment. Harry agreed to stay the night, and did his best to send a message via Patronus back to Grimmauld Place, and before he knew it he was sharing a guest bed with Ron.

"Harry?" mumbled Ron.

"Yes?"

"I think there's something Walt's not telling us."

"Me too."

"Yeah, that Bolo—he's definitely an Ogre. Seems nice though."

"Oh. Right."

* * *

"Quietly, Ron!" said Harry the next day as they arrived home from work.

"This door is huge, how quiet do you expect me to be?"

"I expect you not to handle it like a Bludger, at least. I'd like to slip past Ginny and get to bed early, if you don't mind. My head is killing me."

"What? It's not the—you know..."

"No, it's not the scar—watch the umbrella stand!"

"Sorry. Unlike you, I'm not sneaking by. I'm bloody hungry."

"Really? What else is new?"

"Hey, if you're going up, d'you mind trading shirts? Hermione'll see red..."

"Fine. Don't stretch it out though, I've seen what you do to your own shirts—"

"_Ahem_."

Harry and Ron spun around and saw Ginny standing in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in a manner that reminded Harry of the looks Molly would use to tell the twins that they were in trouble.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"We were on a case," said Harry.

"Looks like it," Ginny said, nodding to Harry's Hawaiian-style shirt, with its splashes of ocean blue, sunset pink, and sandy gold.

"What's going on?" said Hermione, appearing at Ginny's side. She took one look at Harry and Ron and scowled. "_Oh._"

Ron gulped as Hermione's eyes fell to his shirt; it was a solid brown, with a detailed image on the front that featured two nude women standing on giant dice, covered up only by the playing cards in their hands. A logo arcing above the women read _Pair-a-Dice Inn_.

"So that's where you spent the night?" said Hermione.

"Oh yeah, and there were women dancing on the tables," quipped Ron. "Give me some credit. We stayed at Walt's house. Walt Lesae, I mean."

"The spellmaker?" said Ginny, bewildered. "Since when are you on a first name basis with Walt Lesae?"

"Since we investigated him as a suspect in the Midnight Thief case," said Harry.

"Rubbish assignment," added Ron. "It's only because he fits the description of that stupid myth the Prophet made up—but at least it was a nice lark. When's dinner?"

"And you didn't go to work today?" said Hermione, ignoring his question. "I didn't see you at the office."

"That's because Robards had us in the dungeons all day. He went mental when we didn't come back yesterday, so he made us run training drills all day, no breaks."

"By the end of it, our shirts were soaked through with sweat, so we had to change into these," said Ron.

"But why did you stay at his house in the first place?" asked Ginny.

"Can't we talk about this over a plate of chicken or something?" Ron whined.

"All right, I'll get it started, but then I want the full details," agreed Hermione. "And change your shirt, you look ridiculous."

Ron smirked and shuffled up the stairs. Harry figured he could do with a meal before bed, even one prepared by Hermione, so he followed the girls into the kitchen and sat down with Ginny as Hermione paced back and forth around the kitchen, fetching pots and pans and ingredients while muttering instructions under her breath.

Harry exhaled a heavy sigh and rested his head on the table, letting his every muscle ache.

"I hope you're not too tired," said Ginny, patting his arm. "You know I've got a series against the Wasps starting tomorrow. So I was thinking that tonight..."

Harry grinned, but Ginny fell silent as Ron ambled back into the room.

"Much better," said Hermione, glancing at him.

"When?" he asked simply, taking a seat beside Harry.

"Not long now, it's only chicken—oops!"

"What?" Ron demanded.

"It's nothing!" Hermione said, scrambling to fix whatever she had done. Upon closer inspection, Harry and Ron saw that the pot containing the rice was overflowing with foam. "Don't come over, I've got it under control!"

Despite a few minor hiccups, the meal was ready quickly. Harry and Ron grinned as Hermione slid plates of chicken and rice in front of them; it didn't look too bad.

"So, tell me about Walt Lesae," said Hermione.

"Not much to tell," said Ron, his cheek bulging as he chewed. "You know, you should probably taste the food before adding spices."

"Oh." Hermione blushed. "We haven't covered that quite yet."

"Anyway, we went to his house and asked him where he'd been on the night the Jensens were robbed," said Ron. "He was really nice, actually."

"So nice that you felt compelled to stay the night?" asked Ginny.

"He asked us to stay a while—he has a private Quidditch field," explained Harry.

Looks of apprehension dawned on the girls' faces; Ginny looked understanding, but Hermione looked annoyed.

"You were playing _Quidditch?_" she asked.

"Yeah, then we worked up an appetite, and had dinner. By the time we were finished, we were too—too tired to Apparate back. Walt invited us to spend the night in his guest room."

"Tired?" Hermione cocked an eyebrow. "Is that why your Patronus drunkenly asked me if I'd ever tasted imitation crab meat?"

"So we had some Firewhiskey, so what?" said Ron impatiently.

"It sounds like he buttered you up with Quidditch and food and alcohol until you forgot you were investigating a suspect!"

"He's only a suspect because of the buggering Daily Prophet! Besides," said Ron, pointing at Harry's shirt. "His alibi's as good as granite"

"So that leaves Malfoy," said Harry distractedly; he ignored the round of weary groans that sounded around the table at this. "I'm surprised Ernie and Clarinda weren't sent to investigate him. If Lesae's a suspect, I mean..."

"What about that man you mentioned—Wielder, was it?" asked Ginny. "Shouldn't you investigate him? If not for being the Midnight Thief, at least because he's been loitering at Gringotts."

"Yeah, you're right," said Harry. "Something's not on with him, I know it, but I just can't _remember_... What do you think, Ron?"

"Worth looking into." Ron frowned. "Which means we won't be assigned the job."

"You could do it on your own," suggested Hermione. Ron rolled his eyes. "No, really, I think you'd be trusted with more responsibility if you brought in the Midnight Thief everyone's been talking about."

"Yeah, we'll be real heroes, bringing in the legendary criminal." Ron scoffed harshly. "We don't even know if it's the same guy doing it!"

"You don't understand. This Midnight Thief thing has got completely out of hand. Some people are even saying it could be you, Harry."

"Does that mean I'm suave and handsome?" said Harry.

"The point is, you'd be doing Robards a huge favor. You know how much he cares about public image."

"If you're telling me to be his lapdog, I'm not interested."

"Of course I'm not. It's just how you play the game," said Hermione in a tone that suggested she had said it a hundred times. "Right, Ron?"

"Um..."

"Leave Ron alone," said Ginny, smirking.

"Yeah," said Ron. "Wait, why?"

"Because, you must be depressed as it is, given what we did to the Cannons."

Harry smiled gratefully at his girlfriend for the change of subject.

"Pure luck!" snarled Ron. "I know it is, because they beat you last year, and they'll beat you next year! If McClain hadn't been thrown out of the game for stealing that Beater's bat, it'd be a different story, right Harry?"

"I'm not involved," said Harry quickly.

"Some friend you are." Ron turned to Hermione for support. "Hermione?"

"All I know about Quidditch is that the Chudley Cannons are the greatest team ever formed," said Hermione in a rehearsed tone.

"Right," said Ron, nodding triumphantly to Ginny. "That's right, Hermione. That's all you need to know."

"But, back to the topic at hand," began Hermione, but Harry raised a hand to silence her.

"Look, Hermione, I'm too tired for this," he said. "I suppose you're right. I just don't want to be a part of the old, corrupt Ministry. I want it to change."

"Oh, Harry, I know that, and I absolutely agree, but this isn't like Moja, where nobody knew what was going on; this one's in the public eye, and your boss can't ignore it if you succeed."

Harry sighed, then looked at Ron. "Well?"

"We'll have to run it by Ernie and Clarinda," said Ron.

"All right then." Harry stood. "It'll be difficult, though. We're dealing with a thief so elusive and clever that he only steals things nobody in their right mind would want in the first place."


	10. A New Beginning, Another End

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

"I don't see anything," said George, his face buried in a mask that looked like a big eyeball.

"You are not receptive to the mask's powers!" barked Ross Jensen, snatching the Liar's Lament away and fixing it back on his mask rack.

"Oh?" George smirked. "And how does one attain magical mask reception?"

"Magical masks are not toys, they are artifacts of powerful magic that require a certain... _predisposition_. One is born with it, and if not... you could insert an antennae in that ear-hole of yours for all the good it'd do you. Now, if you're done with your petty skepticism, there are others who will not make the mistake of overlooking this ancient magic..."

"Hold your Hippogriffs, Jensen," said George, pointing to a circular white mask with the face of a clock painted on it. "What did you say that one could do?"

"Ah, the Midnight Oil," Ross identified, picking the mask off of the rack. "Behind this mask, one is unable to fall asleep. You will remain awake and alert as long as you wear it. But, I must warn you, prolonged use of this mask can take a hefty toll on the body. Yes, it is a most effective mask, even on the heads of those to whom the other masks yield no response."

"In other words, it can't be tested until I've already bought it." George grinned. "Don't worry, Jensen, I'm buying. No refunds, I presume?"

"Of course not."

"Yeah, that's not suspicious at all. What's the damage?"

"For the Midnight Oil?" George nodded and reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I don't think I could possibly part with it for less than five Galleons."

"FIVE RUDDY—" George nearly dropped his wallet in shock. "You're off your chair, you are! I'm not giving you a Knut more than two, and that's generous."

"Deal."

Ross facilitated the transaction quickly, and the Jensen Brothers' Mask Market carriage rolled along, down the main road of Hogsmeade village, its wheels burning orange like hot embers. George shook his head as he watched it disappear down the road._ Like a thief in the night_, he thought.

George strode along the village's widest dirt road until he reached Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Hogsmeade branch, which was strategically located across from the Three Broomsticks; the colorful fireworks display in its storefront served to tempt drunken pub-goers on their way out.

The joke shop was quite empty at midday, unlike its sister in Diagon Alley, though there were enormous surges of profit during certain weekends when children from Hogwarts were allowed to visit the village.

George considered walking right by, but that option disappeared quickly when he saw a familiar pair of big dark eyes meeting his gaze through the shop window. He waved awkwardly to Angelina, and she gave him a curt nod. George cringed.

They had ended their last meeting on a bad note. Angelina's post at the Hogsmeade branch was originally meant for Neville. It was perfect, in fact, for Neville, and yet George had exiled Angelina to the village instead, with no explanation provided. When she brought this to his attention, his reasoning was that it supported the romance brewing between Neville and local barmaid Hannah Abbott, but when she then asked why he didn't appoint Lee, he was forced to simply flee the scene without another word.

The truth was, George didn't like Angelina working for him at Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, or any joke shop, for that matter. She wasn't a joker like him, and the work would grow mundane to her in a matter of time. George always thought she should be in the air, flying, doing what she was born to do.

What happened when they last met — the reason she was now glaring loathingly at him as he stepped through the door — was nothing new; he had avoided questions, avoided feelings, and often avoided _her_ since Fred's death. George hoped she didn't expect him to confront her now. He certainly wasn't keen to explore any of the emotional muck that arose in his stomach, ready to complicate things even more, which he felt whenever he thought of Angie, Fred, and himself.

George approached the counter cautiously. Angelina looked calm enough, perusing her copy of Witch Weekly magazine, but she gave him the strong impression of a coiled snake waiting to strike. Then, a welcome distraction appeared as George spotted the glowing face of his own sister on the cover of the magazine.

"Hey, is that..." George fell into silence as Angelina quickly placed the magazine on the counter, face-down, hiding Ginny's picture from sight.

He cleared his throat, waiting for the guillotine, hoping it would be clean and quick and wouldn't leave him only nearly headless, until finally she spoke.

"Why didn't you put Lee out here?" she asked. "Why me?"

It was worse than he had imagined; she was attempting to pick up exactly where they had left off. George would have preferred her to yell at him for his rudeness.

"I want him in Diagon Alley, with me," he said.

"That's all? You'd just prefer to be around him?_ That's_ what you couldn't tell me the other night?"

"It's not an easy thing to tell someone. Anyway, he's got more experience. Now can I see that magazine?"

Angelina stared at him, a searching look in her eyes, as he reached for the magazine. She didn't stop him.

"Why didn't you try out for a team?" he asked as he examined the cover, which featured the Holyhead Harpies in full Quidditch regalia. "Eh, captain?"

Angelina's composure faltered and she looked very taken aback by the question.

"For a professional Quidditch team?" she asked emphatically, trying to convey the absurdity of the notion.

"Ginny did it," he said, looking up at her. "And she didn't even make captain for Gryffindor. You did."

"Maybe there's something keeping me here." Angelina cleared her throat, and George looked away. "And don't change the subject.

"George," she said, her tone a bit too pleading for his comfort. "I really want to talk to you."

"Fine, but not now." Angelina crossed her arms impatiently, and George sighed. "It can't be now, Angie. I'm visiting Hogwarts again today, for the project."

"When you've finished?"

"Maybe."

Angelina raised her eyebrows.

"I might not survive!" he added.

"Pity."

"Fine, I'll try to make it back. This is tricky work, though."

"What are you doing up there, anyway?"

George merely shook his head.

"Does it have anything to do with your recent trips to St. Mungo's?"

"Uh, w-what?" sputtered George, looking as though he had just been punched in the gut. "No, I was just visiting my beloved brother Percy—"

"Don't con me. I know Percy's been released already. What are you up to, George?"

"I really can't tell you, and I want you to stop asking," said George, dropping all traces of humor. "I haven't told anyone. Not even Lee."

"I can keep a secret," she offered, as he backed away towards the door.

"Sorry, but so can I," he said on his way out.

George let out a low whistle of relief as he strolled down the main road of Hogsmeade in mild haste, eager to distance himself from the shop. He considered that little detour one fiasco averted, and he was off to fix another.

Beyond the edge of the village, George trudged uphill, following a dirt path that curled around the Black Lake. Further along the path, Hogwarts Castle came into view high in the distance, bustling audibly with students like a big city of grey towers behind a wall of thick, reinforced battlements.

As he passed the front gate, George was reminded forcibly of the first time he entered Hogwarts grounds past the twin statues of winged boars. He did so, of course, alongside his own twin. George smiled at the memory of those long-lost Weasley twins of the past who entered the school armed with daring, nerve, and chivalry, and quickly found a map to follow, a caretaker to torment, and a reputation to embrace.

Now, George wondered if not just one, but both of those legendary mischief-makers were dead. He took some comfort in reminding himself that he could still muster the effort to pull one over on old Ronnie and enjoy it. He was still George.

And life goes on, doesn't it? It was a wonder, really, how George could live an almost entirely automated life. His mind definitely wasn't consciously involved in making his legs lug him all the way up to the castle. He supposed his emotions were so torn up that all that remained was instinct, guiding him through every day like a mindless worker bee.

Black-robed students were scattered across the grounds, chatting, laughing, lounging by the lake. George considered it the high point of any young witch or wizard's life to be staying at Hogwarts and not learning.

Heads turned as George walked past the crowd of students and up to the castle. With his coppery hair, magenta robes, and missing ear, he tempted the gaze of every eye in the entrance hall. George couldn't help but smirk when a fifth-year girl pointed him out to her friends and they all huddled together, red in the face and overcome by a fit of giggles.

As he continued through the corridor, George stopped to admire the little stone figurines of Harry, Ron, and Hermione on a plinth beside the Great Hall's big double doors. He didn't linger at the statues for long after a sudden rumbling in his stomach reminded him of his first order of business. Working on the project at Hogwarts always meant a free lunch, and he was headed straight for the kitchens.

George was greeted by the House Elves as an old friend. During his school days, they had been delighted to keep him well-fed, and he had graciously accomodated them by always eating the food they placed before him. Why should he join S.P.E.W. anyway, after all he'd done for them?

After finishing his soup with a sigh of satisfaction, he thanked the elves and exited the kitchens. As soon as he stepped out from behind the painting of a bowl of fruit that served as the kitchen door, he heard familiar voices around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks, then ducked back behind the painting. He intended to avoid the Bandits, as they had been warned to stay out of trouble; the last thing they needed was a run-in with George Weasley, trouble personified.

"I just barely missed that last save!" groaned Munky of the Battle-Axe Bandits.

"Munky, you didn't save _any_ of them, there's no way they'd have let you on the team," said Blackboot in a tone of dismissal. "At least I had a shot."

"You had no such thing," countered Munky. "You couldn't fly if a dragon ate you for dinner!"

"You couldn't fly if you had wings and propeller growing out of your broomstick!"

"At least none of you actually fell off," said Roque, sounding defeated.

"Oh, Roque, just stop it," said Elena. "It wasn't your fault. You shouldn't have tried out as Seeker. Had you gone for the Beater spot..."

"Who wants to be a _Beater?_" said Roque, to general agreement.

George grumbled at this as the Bandits walked past his hiding spot and continued down the corridor, but his resentment dissipated when he saw Peeves the poltergeist hovering after them with a telltale grin.

"Oh no you don't!" objected George.

He held his wand up, aiming directly at Peeves's floating figure, and shot a lightning-quick red bolt that zapped the poltergeist square between the shoulder blades. He then turned tail and dashed down the corridor as Peeves lurched forward, turning upside down in mid-air, and glimpsed George's retreat.

"Wheezy!" Peeves cackled, zooming after George in flips and somersaults. "Wheezy, Wheezy, here comes Peevesie!"

But before Peeves could reach him, George turned a corner and slipped out of sight behind a big clunky suit of armor, and by the time Peeves hurried over to investigate, George was gone. Thanks to the Marauder's Map, George knew that behind this particular suit of armor was a crawlspace that led to the adjacent corridor.

George emerged from the other end of the crawlspace a prowling, one-eared hyena, and transformed back to his human self. His sudden appearance startled a nearby portrait of a plump old witch and her dog, and he had to cast a quick Silencing Charm to quell the dog's harsh barking. By the maniacal laugh that was ringing in his ears, George knew that Peeves was still patrolling the area.

Peeves would have a job causing trouble now, thought George, as the faraway chime of the clock tower could be heard, and students began flooding into the halls from every classroom. Stopping to catch his breath, George smiled genuinely; dealing with Peeves was one of his favorite pastimes. However, duty called. He had had his food, had his fun, and now it was time to get to work.

* * *

Night had fallen over Hogwarts castle, and its grey corridors were now illuminated by the golden glow of torchlight. If George allowed himself to indulge in nostalgia at such a time, the warm haze would bring him back to his mischievous Hogwarts nights spent sneaking into the restricted section of the Library to see exactly why it was restricted, laboring fruitlessly to find a way into the girls dormitory, rearranging all the Potions ingredients in Snape's cupboard, always alongside Fred...

"Focus," said George, shaking some sense into his head.

Anyone spying on him at the moment would believe that he was talking to a wall, and possibly harbor concerns for his mental health. That's exactly what he was doing, though it was a very special stretch of stone located on the seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. The image of the one-eared ginger man having a conversation with the wall was not made any more ordinary by the clock-shaped mask he had strapped to his face.

"You want to know what I require," said George, rubbing the mask's chin in thought. "But it's what you require that matters, and what you require is repair."

At this, he fell silent, and began pacing back and forth, occasionally glancing back at the blank stone wall.

"Can you even hear me?" he asked. "Can you still read my thoughts, like before?"

He leaned forward and placed both hands on the wall, and sighed.

"I don't know who enchanted you, but you've got a magic much stronger than my own. How can I fix this if you can't? I've asked Neville, and he's at a loss. I've heard that he really understands you."

George stepped closer to the wall, and brushed his fingertips over it soothingly.

"Tell me where it hurts..."

George stood up straight, readying himself for another attempt at helping the Room of Requirement fix itself. _I need a place that isn't on fire_, he thought, concentrating hard. He paced by the door three times, holding that thought firmly in his mind, but to no avail. _Why don't we start by letting me in?_ he then tried, but the room still did not comply.

"I've tried everything!" George shouted, his voice echoing across the seventh floor. "I've given you every bit of Healing magic documented in the library! I even tried to approach you from behind—and Aberforth was just a bit hacked off when he caught me performing advanced spells on his portrait of Ariana—but I risked it, for _you_, you ungrateful—"

He stopped, and took a deep breath.

"Maybe you're incapable of gratitude. Maybe I should be grateful. I'm paying you back, after all." George was overcome by a yawn, much to his annoyance. "And I'm tired! This mask is useless!"

He ripped the Midnight Oil mask off of his face and threw it on the floor, eliciting a great woody clatter that reverberated through the hall. George sagged forward and let his head fall into the wall none too gently, staring at the floor in defeat.

The discarded mask stared back at him, and he considered stomping on it, but then something hit him... something that made him very glad that he had purchased the mask. Its face, painted like the face of a clock, gave him a wonderful epiphany.

"That's it!" he declared, crouching down and retrieving the mask quickly, then brushing it off with his sleeve. "Right! Worth every Knut, you are!"

It was when he heard a faint meow from down the hall that George realized he had been making a lot of noise in a school very late at night. He turned around and saw Mrs. Norris sitting by the stairway. She stared back at him for a moment, then scurried off. There was no doubt in George's mind that she was off to alert Filch of the antics of his most despised student.

But, as George performed his Animagus transformation and fled the scene on all fours, quiet except for the clicking of his claws, he could not be bothered by Filch or the cat. He had reached another breakthrough today, working hard, as he always did, to earn the right to be happy even without Fred.


	11. Waxing and Waning

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman (and so must a werewolf.)

* * *

Halloween at the Leaky Cauldron was a festive occasion, though decorations were scarce in the form of a few uncarved pumpkins scattered haphazardly around the pub. Regulars and visitors alike embraced the Halloween spirit with continuous rounds of special pumpkin-flavored Firewhiskey, recounting the most humorous stories of the year, and singing such Leaky favorites as_ Odo the Hero_, Celestina Warbeck's_ Lovesick on All Hallow's Eve_, and _Ron Got a Howler._

"Ah, I'm finally off," said Hannah, wiping the dripping sweat off of her forehead with a white rag. "Hey guys, may I sit with you?"

The guys whom she addressed were all Weasley's Wizard Wheezes staff; proprietor George, who currently had a bat-shaped eyepatch covering his earhole; second-in-command Lee, whose wild dreadlocks had grown long enough to warrant being tied up in a ponytail; rookie Neville, whose face lit up when Hannah announced the end of her shift; and Hogsmeade branch manager Angelina, who kindly relinquished her seat to Hannah and disappeared into a haze of blue pipesmoke by the bar to retrieve more drinks.

"I'm surprised you're all here," said Hannah, her voice coming out as a tired huff. "I would imagine it a busy night for the joke shop."

"Hardly," said Lee, waving a dismissive hand. "The eve's what you've got to look out for. Besides, Verity's still there. Said she's got nothing else to do tonight, the poor girl. I might go back there and console her."

"Console her?" said George, raising an eyebrow. "Do me a favor and drop that thought. It'll save me a lawsuit."

"You underestimate me," said Lee, before finishing off his glass of Firewhiskey. He then nudged George with his elbow and nodded covertly to Neville, who was engaged in whispered conversation with Hannah on the other side of the table. "I reckon you underestimated him too. You shouldn't, it'd save you the embarrassment. You remember the last time..."

"Don't bring _her_ up," said George shortly. "You'll spoil my drink—wait, shit, there's none left."

George set his glass on the table with a pout, but Angelina returned just in time and he brightened up again and hastened to pull up a chair for her and her tray of drinks. She sat down, looking grateful, but offered no thanks; he had not returned from his work at Hogwarts the other day, and his continued avoidance had rendered her quite cold towards him.

"You must be knackered, Hannah," she said. Hannah sat up from her huddled conversation with Neville and nodded.

"Sounds like a great excuse to get pissed," George concluded, nudging a glass of Firewhiskey across the table to her, which she accepted happily. "Must be tiring indeed, squirrelling around these tables, carrying trays and mugs at odd angles... having your arse pinched by the occasional drunken git..."

"You included," mumbled Neville. George looked affronted.

"That was an accident!" he urged, but Neville merely narrowed his eyes as Hannah giggled beside him.

"I don't imagine Tom has the same problem," said Lee, nodding to the toothless barman who was now alone in serving the entire pub.

"I'm worried about him, actually," said Hannah, her eyes wide and sincere. "He's been having health problems, I think. He won't admit it, but I've noticed, sometimes... if my legs didn't feel like they weigh about a hundred pounds each, I'd get up and get back to work."

"Nonsense!" said George. "It is a day of mischief!"

"Hey, George?" said Angelina, her forehead tensed in thought. George perked up, and Angelina inquired, "Where are Harry and Ron and Hermione? How come the famous trio never turn up on Halloween these days? Ever since they've been out of Hogwarts, I mean."

"Oh," said George faintly, clearing his throat and thinking fast. "I think Hermione likes to celebrate it the Muggle way and the boys play along. Muggles stay home on Halloween, I suppose."

"Plus Ginny's just back from trouncing the Wimbourne Wasps," added Lee, waggling his eyebrows. "Probably celebrating with Potter, if you get my owl."

"Son of a bitch, Lee," George snapped, slamming his glass down on the table. Lee sniggered, and George took a calming breath, and said, "Actually, I think you should see Verity after all. I reckon she fancies you, mate. Go now."

"Nah, I'm not nearly drunk enough to brave that minefield. You know Verity; she's got a body like Gwenog Jones and an attitude like Neville's gran. Shit, if she knew I was even talking about her... I'd better stop."

"Speaking of Quidditch, what's your team?" asked George, directing his focus back on Hannah. "Harpies fan, eh?"

"No, not all women are," she said. George got the impression she was a lightweight with alcohol, similar to Neville. Her eyes had grown red after a few drinks and she had begun smiling convulsively every few seconds. "I'm a Puddlemere fan, actually."

"Ah, a fan of Mr. Most Charming Smile, you mean," said Lee with a grin. "Old Ollie's doing rather well for himself, I hear."

"Hey, women may fall in love with the smile, but when they get to the bedroom and Oliver's whipped out five pages of Quidditch diagrams and told the girl to execute a Sloth Grip Roll..." George's sentence was drowned out by a round of chuckling across the table.

"I was a Puddlemere fan before Wood," said Hannah, once the laughter had died down. "And I was a Wood fan before Puddlemere, I'll have you know!"

"What, really?" said Neville, not quite jealous, but surprised.

"Are you joking? You guys were stars!" said Hannah, gesturing to the table at large. "Gryffindor, I mean. You always seemed like such a fun group. You had Potter, Angie, Wood, and those Chasers Katie and Alicia, and especially you, George, and your brother—oh my god, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, holding up her hands. "I shouldn't have!"

"Not at all," said George softly, giving her an encouraging smile. "He's not Voldemort, Hannah. You can say the name of my dead brother Fred. Don't be shy bringing him up."

"I'm sorry," Hannah repeated, but George shook his head. "We'd never admit it, but Hufflepuff loved you guys for beating Slytherin. Shame we couldn't attend the after-parties. But I wouldn't trade Ernie and Justin as friends, not for the world. I just wish..."

"It's all right," said Neville, patting her on the shoulder. "Ernie will come 'round."

"I meant to say that I wish we'd had a better Quidditch team. There was Cedric, but—oh dear! I'm on a roll tonight, aren't I?"

"She babbles when she's had too much to drink," explained Neville.

"You're absolutely right," Hannah agreed. "Enough about me, then."

"But you're the new blood here," said George. "We're meant to learn about you now. What else should we talk about?"

"How about your project, George?" said Angelina. "You said you'd had some sort of breakthrough, and that's why you couldn't meet up with me at the Hogsmeade branch that night."

"I've said I'm sorry. I really did have a breakthrough!" insisted George. "I'm not going to tell you until I do the job, though, because the Ministry might block it. It requires codeword clearance, which I haven't got, but both Percy and Higgins have, and I'm sure I can get it out of one of them."

"_Codeword clearance?_ This doesn't sound like a small project at all!" said Angelina, her eyes wide. "You said it wasn't dangerous!"

"It's not!" said George. "Well, that is to say, it won't damage anything that hasn't already been damaged, if it does go wrong."

"Hey, thanks, that makes me feel loads better!"

"Merlin, I'd better get out of the line of fire here," said Lee, who was sitting between George and Angelina and taking the brunt of Angelina's shouts. "I think I will go see Verity after all—oh, would you look at that. Verity can wait, I'm not going to miss this."

Lee gestured to the backdoor of the pub, whence Luna Lovegood had just entered. Her tangle of blonde hair could be seen flipping up and down as she skipped through the crowd towards the bar, her jagged pumpkin-themed dress flowing in her wake. Neville coughed up a bit of his drink when he caught sight of her.

"Here comes trouble," said George, and Angelina let out a low whistle.

Neville gulped down the rest of his drink, took a deep breath, then said, "Excuse me," and left the table in pursuit of Luna.

"Right, she's back," said Hannah miserably, her drunken eyes drooping. "And now I'm just this big gooseberry standing in their way, aren't I?"

George, Lee, and Angelina shared baffled looks, unsure of what to say, until George finally decided on sliding yet another drink over to Hannah, and was rewarded with a smile.

"I don't know what a gooseberry is, but you are looking a bit red," joked Angelina, but Hannah was busy sitting up and craning over the crowd to get a better look at Neville as he approached Luna across the pub.

Neville came up behind Luna at the bar, his eyes rolling around a bit in his head as his mind raced.

"Hello, Neville," she said before he reached her, without turning around.

"Er—hey," Neville managed, cursing his nerves as he sat next to her. "George said you came 'round the shop, looking for me."

Luna turned away from her orange sorbet (which she had sprinkled with nuts) and met his eyes for the first time since she had left for Spain. They stared at each other for a moment, Luna unflinching, Neville gulping, then both spoke at the same time.

"I've met someone," they said.

"Wait, _you've_ met someone?" Neville said, unable to hide his indignation. "I mean, I have too, I shouldn't—I'm sorry—"

"His name is Rolf," said Luna steadily. "I met him on my travels."

"Oh, right, you've told me about him," said Neville, his features softening as he recalled the letter she had sent him. "But I suppose you didn't tell me everything, yeah?"

"I did," said Luna sharply. But her calm, dreamy demeanor returned when she explained, "Rolf and I are just friends, but I think it's quite obvious what a man wants with a woman when he shows unconditional interest in her beliefs."

"Yeah... I don't think I follow."

"He's interested in me. He'll be pursuing more than friendship, I expect. And..." Luna hesitated, and returned to her dessert, muttering, "I intend to let him."

"I can't complain. I've started dating someone already. George sort of pressured me into it, but I like her."

"She works here," said Luna absentmindedly, popping half of a peanut into her mouth. "George has told me about her. Unfortunately, I can't find many flaws to point out. She's nice."

"Oh, good. So it would be better just to remain friends," Neville said in an exhale of relief. "Let what we had before—let it die, and now we can be friends, can't we?"

"Oh I don't think it'll die until we do. I think we should cherish memories like lessons from the past."

Neville felt a pang in his chest; he suspected that view had something to do with Luna's late mother.

"But we can still be friends, right?" he repeated.

"Always." Luna smiled serenely, looking over at him again. "Your portrait on my ceiling is permanent. I don't know how to remove it."

"You're stuck with me, then," said Neville with a small smile. "Hey, I think Lee's gone back to the shop. Will you join us?"

Luna nodded and allowed Neville to guide her through the shifting crowd and colored pipesmoke to their table near the back. George watched them as they neared, his face frozen still in a remarkably wide grin until they reached the table.

"Hey, guys," Neville said, pulling Lee's vacant chair out and offering it to Luna. "Hannah, I'd like you to meet my friend—"

"Loony," interjected George.

"_Luna_," said Neville firmly, scowling. "Luna, this is my girlfriend, Hannah."

"We've met," said Luna.

"We went to school together, Nev!" said Hannah, smiling goofily. "What, did you think we Hufflepuffs were sitting around rubbing our wands together when there were no Gryffindors around? Oh, that sounded so wrong!"

Hannah erupted into sniggering, then stopped promptly once she noticed everyone watching her with amusement. "But it's nice to meet you properly, I suppose. As he s-says, I'm his _girlfriend_."

"Hannah, you don't have to do that, she knows we're together."

Neville went quiet as the door to the pub banged open and Lee hobbled in, looking very disgruntled with a big red mark on his cheek. He hurried over to his seat, and was annoyed to find Luna sitting in it.

"What's this?" he said.

"She's your replacement," said George matter-of-factly. "And you know what, she's doing more with that chair than you ever did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Lee, and then his face relaxed a bit in comprehension. "Oh, what, you mean like with the Quidditch commentary? Hey, I'd like to see _her_ host Potterwatch."

"Really?" said Luna. "I would love to tell people about my discoveries in Spain—"

"No, not really!" Lee snarled, casting around the pub for a free chair.

"So," said Angelina casually. "How'd it go with Verity?"

"Got slapped," Lee grumbled impatiently.

"Thought so. You know what we have to do now, don't you?"

"What?"

"Send Luna in there to replace you, of course!"

* * *

Ever since the Fidelius Charm had been lifted from number twelve, Grimmauld Place, costumed Muggle children had begun visiting for sweets and mischief on the night of Halloween. Ron had immediately objected to the idea of strange children in capes and masks cutting into his supply of Chocolate Frogs and Drooble's gum, but Hermione reminded him that Muggles weren't supposed to know about such enchanted treats.

Nevertheless, being revealed to the Muggle world brought concern to all residents of number twelve. However, as Ministry workers, it was much too inconvenient that the Ministry relay all domestic matters through a Secret Keeper. As a compromise, the Ministry provided its highest detail of protective enchantments on the entire premises.

Hermione was the first to embrace their emergence into the Muggle world. She hastened to answer the door whenever the bell rang on Halloween night, equipped with bowls of her favorite sugar-free snacks to empty into the neighborhood childrens' bags and plastic pumpkin-shaped buckets.

"Ooh, aren't you scary!" she gasped playfully to one such group of children as she distributed snacks into their presented bags. "And what are you supposed to be—"

"RAAAGH!"

Ron had pounced suddenly into view, hands waving madly, baring his slimy wax-colored teeth, his shadowy eyes wide and bloodshot. These children, unlike many others, did not scream or flee at the sight of him, much to his disappointment.

"Cool!" they crooned. "That zombie costume is ace, mister!"

"Ron, you nearly gave me a heart attack," Hermione admonished, her hand to her chest.

"Sorry," said Ron dismissively. He nodded to one of the children at the door, and said, "So what're you today?"

"A wizard, obviously!" said the kid, holding up his arms and revealing his enormous sagging sleeves.

"Really, where's your wand?"

"A magic wand? I'm a wizard, not a magician, you dolt."

Ron shook his head crossly, contemplating the consequences of feeding the young 'wizard' a Peppermint Toad and watching him squirm as it bounced around in his stomach.

"All right, run along now, go on," he shooed, backing them down the stoop and shutting the door. When he stepped back inside, he found himself on the receiving end of one of Hermione's stern looks.

"What'd I do?"

"Is it necessary to use your curse to frighten Muggle children?" she said, her lip twitching in restrained amusement.

"Just making the best of it," replied Ron with as much cheer as he could manage under a full moon.

Together they made their way to the kitchen, where they found Harry and Ginny conversing by the oven.

"Oh no, Ginny, you haven't started dinner yet, have you?" said Hermione. "It's no problem, of course, but I'm never going to learn if you keep cooking for me."

"Just tea," said Ginny. "Honestly, I'm just thankful you don't follow me around the kitchen, scrutinizing my every move. And I thought George drove my mum up the wall..."

Ginny caught sight of Hermione's tragic expression and quickly amended, "But Mum's enjoying teaching you. Thinks it's very dear, in fact."

"You can cook," sighed Hermione. "It's Halloween, after all. I shouldn't risk ruining it for the sake of culinary experiments."

"Or you could take one out of George's book and use the occasion to full effect. Experiment on all these kids that keep turning up," suggested Harry.

"I don't care what we eat, but it had better be soon because my eyesight's already starting to go," urged Ron as he sat down at the kitchen table. "What were you two talking about, anyway?"

"Midnight Thief," said Harry as Hermione opened the magically cooled pantry and began digging around for ingredients. "Ginny reckons we should pay Wielder a visit at his home and scope the place out. Seems like he's planning something, hanging around Gringotts all day."

"All right, then," Ron agreed. "Hermione, do you want to come too?"

"Yes, I think I should," she said as she emerged with several frozen slabs of steak. "Given your history at the Auror Department, I doubt they'd let you investigate it officially."

"Merlin's pants, I was _joking,_" mumbled Ron.

"I'm afraid I really don't know what you mean, Hermione," said Harry. "You act like we're bad at our jobs or something. It's Robards who's been—"

"I know, Harry, you've told me."

"Besides, there's nothing even remotely suspect about my history," Harry continued; his tone heralded yet another allusion to _Hero: The Harry Potter Story._ "My history is rather _heroic—_"

"NO!"

"Calm down, Ron, it's just a joke," said Harry, but Ron wasn't listening.

"_No, no, no..._"

Ron had drooped over the kitchen table and was now mumbling frantically into the wood. With what looked like a great effort, he pulled himself upright with trembling hands, revealing a fresh spot of blood on the table where his mouth had been. Ginny shot to her feet and clapped her hands over her mouth, and Harry and Hermione turned to Ron, horror-struck.

"Oh no!" said Hermione breathlessly, rushing over to Ron just in time to catch him as he nearly fell off his chair. "It doesn't usually happen this early!"

"Well it's h-happening!" coughed Ron, his voice hoarse.

Harry was torn, shifting his eyes between the terrified Ginny and agonized Ron. He quickly gave Ginny a strong pat on the shoulder and looked into her eyes, hoping to encourage her, then joined Hermione by Ron's side.

"Have you taken your potion tonight?"

"OF COURSE I FUCKING HAVE DONE!" barked Ron, his eyes flashing, and he snatched a glass pepper shaker from the center of the table and pelted it at Harry full-strength. Harry ducked under it as it zoomed by and it shattered against a pot of water Hermione had set to boil — the pot barreled over into Ginny's chest and splashed boiling water down her front.

"Shit!" exclaimed Harry, darting across the room towards Ginny, who had fallen over shrieking and had puffs of steam flowing from her shirt.

Then the doorbell rang. More children must have come for sweets.

"Great, just what we need! Ginny, are you alright?"

But Ginny was now watching her brother convulse in his chair, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ron got to his feet — which had become paws — supported completely by Hermione, who sagged low under his weight.

"Ron, sit down!" Hermione pleaded as she held his shoulders and struggled to steady him, which became much more difficult when his back hunched violently and he jutted further upward in height.

The doorbell chimed throughout the house again; Harry let out a huff of exasperation and jogged back over to Ron, who was now swaying dangerously in Hermione's grasp. But before he could get there, Hermione's grip faltered and Ron fell into a nearby cabinet, shattering its glass and sending plates and cutlery cascading down over Hermione and himself.

Crookshanks appeared in the doorway, hissing in Ron's direction. Harry drew his wand too late to prevent the dishes from falling — Ron pulled Hermione under his slender frame to shield her from the falling glass, howling in pain as claws ripped out of his fingertips.

The doorbell rang again, and that's when Harry realized that Ginny had come closer and was sobbing full force, her wet red hands over her chest. Harry felt his chest tighten up at the sight of her, but brought his attention back to the heap of fur and glass that was Ron and tried to pull him up. For a moment, he wouldn't let go of Hermione, but when Hermione gathered herself and started pulling him up as well, he rose too quickly and fell onto them.

Harry's face contorted with disgust as Ron came entirely too close to him. Unfortunately unable to avert his eyes, Harry saw the stages of the transformation up close; the grimace of intense pain, then the euphoric grin, then Ron's whole head morphing grotesquely into that of a wolf. Then, hiccuping dog whimpers joined Ginny's heavy sobs and the incessant doorbell.

"Ron?" said Hermione, who had got up and was sitting on her knees at Ron's side. "Are you all right?"

Fully transformed, Ron's lupine ears perked up and he glanced up at Hermione, then offered a brief yip.

"Oh but of course you're not!" Hermione cried. "I'm sorry, Ron, I didn't think it would happen so soon, I—"

Hermione was cut off as Ron promptly licked her face with his long flat tongue. He then rose on his bleeding paws and crawled over to his sister, who sat against a leg of the long kitchen table, watching Ron with her mouth open in fright.

Ginny seemed to regain her composure when Ron prodded her knee with his snout until she agreed to pet him behind his ears.

"Good show, Ron," she said, wiping away tears as she spoke. "You've destroyed all our china and my chest is going to have a burn."

But Ron was quite distracted, as he always was, when Ginny scratched behind his ears.

"How do you watch this e-every month?" she asked Hermione, who merely shook her head.

"I usually close my eyes and hold onto him until it's over. It's safer on a bed, I think."

"At least he's more cuddly this way," joked Harry weakly, as the doorbell sounded again. "And will someone answer that damned door!"

"I will," said Hermione.

But before Hermione had finished voicing this thought, Ron brushed past her and trotted down the hallway towards the front door, eliciting another hiss from Crookshanks as he passed.

"Ron no!"

* * *

"For the last time, we are not stopping at the Three Broomsticks!" said Hermione, dragging an ill-looking Ron along by his elbow. "We've got more important issues at hand!"

"I could really use it, you know," said Ron gravely; his post-transformation appeals to sympathy were quite obvious to Hermione, but still generally successful.

"All right, if you're okay with it," she said, glancing at Harry and Ginny questioningly.

"I could use a Butterbeer," said Ginny, shivering in the brisk November afternoon; she had been exempt from the day's Quidditch practice due to her burns and the Harpies' team trainer had instructed her to 'let the wounds breathe,' which could only be done by wearing a very low-cut shirt that Harry and Ron didn't much approve of her going out in.

"I'll go and get them," offered Harry quickly, with another glance at his girlfriend's top.

"No, I'll go," said Ron.

"Aha!" Hermione exclaimed. "_You_ just want to see Madame Rosmerta, don't you?" she accused, jabbing a finger into his chest.

"I've just had a full moon!" Ron reasoned.

"She's getting on in years, you know," said Hermione bitterly, trudging past the Three Broomsticks with Ron ruefully in tow.

"All the more reason to—er—I just wanted a drink, okay?"

"Oh, Ron... Harry, where is this man's house, anyway? We're almost to the edge of the village."

"Kreacher said it's further down the road," replied Harry. "But that's nearing centaur territory, isn't it? I don't know how we could go any further."

Harry put his hand over his forehead and squinted into the trees at the edge of the forest. The familiar road to Grawp's cave was at their feet and veered off to the left. In the opposite direction, Harry spotted a few specks of peculiar gray color betwixt the tall brush and thick tree trunks.

"There's something over there," he said. "Here, look, the trail branches off in that direction."

Leading the way along a faint path of patted-down grass and broken twigs, Harry cast frequent glances back at Ginny's chest under the guise of checking if his companions were still following him.

"There, look!" said Ginny, pointing straight ahead at a small stone cottage that came into view as they reached the end of the trail. "That'll be it, I think."

"I've never been to this part of the forest before," said Ron. "Not consciously, at least."

"I've always thought this was Magorian's land, but then that must be further along," said Hermione.

"Lovely neighbors Mr. Wielder's got," Ron remarked.

"Don't say that, Ron!" hissed Hermione, casting a nervous glance around at the bustling forest. "You're on thin ice with them already, and they could be out there!"

"Thin ice? What are you talking about?"

"It's a Muggle expression," said Hermione impatiently. "You know, 'skating on thin ice.'"

"Oh," said Ron, bemused. "What's skating?"

"It just means they're already cross with you and you shouldn't upset them any further," Hermione explained. Surveying the surrounding trees again, she added, "Helinora once told me that the wind speaks to them."

"Good, I hope it tells them they're a bunch of tossers," said Ron. "Can we get on with this, or do you still think I'm going to start some sort of international incident?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," mumbled Harry.

"Huh?"

Harry cleared his throat and continued towards Wielder's house without another word.

"If you're talking about that magic-man we saw the other day, that was nothing!" said Ron, jogging after him.

"Right, nothing," said Harry, shaking his head in disbelief. "You tried to arrest a Muggle magician for breaking the Statute of Secrecy, then after you told him all about our world—because he had no idea what you were talking about—I had to Obliviate him."

"No harm done," said Ron. "And he had to have broken the Statute. How else could he have conjured that coin out of my ear?"

"It's sleight-of-hand, Ron," said Hermione, smiling in silent laughter.

"But you told Robards it was nothing, right Harry?"

"Ron, I'm not stupid," said Harry shortly.

"Just making sure, mate. The Curse has me missing too many work days as it is. I'm really on thin ice skates with the boss."

"But you've told him you were in hospital, haven't you?" said Ginny.

"Yeah, a few too many times, I reckon. I've got the highest injury rate since Tonks' Auror training because of it. Old codger never shuts up about me being reckless."

"What about Ernie and Clarinda? They don't know, do they?"

"Heavens no. Can you imagine? Clarinda and her big mouth keeping that in? It's bad enough that Hagrid knows."

"I can't get over the feeling that somebody's going to figure out someday..." Harry met Ron's eyes as he spoke; they did not often discuss this subject in anything other than jest. "I mean, if you're still a trainee and someone works it out, I don't know if even Kingsley could help you. Everyone knew Lupin was all right, and yet..."

"I'm working on it," said Hermione, cutting into Harry's rambling. "I really am, Ron, but there's only so much that can be done at my department."

"Look, would you guys stop staring at me like I'm dying?" Ron growled as he glared away the gazes of his friends. "Let's just get on with this, okay?"

"Right, Wielder," said Harry, clearing his throat.

They had arrived at a small wooden front gate that looked very out of place without a fence surrounding it; just two thick wooden poles and a frame of steel bars that creaked in the wind. Beyond the gate was a long dirt trail that led to Wielder's small cottage, splitting through the large body of unkempt grass in the front lawn.

"Wand out, concealed, just in case," Harry instructed Ron at the door, and Hermione and Ginny complied as well.

Hiding his wand behind his back, Harry knocked on the door with his free hand. The moment his knuckles hit the door, it tipped inward and fell down like a domino.

There was a shocked silence among the four investigators as they stared inside the house; it looked as though an elephant had rampaged through it. Wooden splinters littered the floor under massive gaps that had been torn into the walls, creating openings to other rooms. Shards of broken glass and fluffs of unrecognizable furniture cluttered the sitting room floor, which was sunken at the center and had a large shadowy crack in its sanded wood that had weeds growing out of it. The far wall of the hallway had also been destroyed, opening to the garden outside.

"Oh no, nothing suspicious here," said Ron.

"We need to search the house, there might be someone hurt inside," said Hermione.

"Go in?" said Ginny weakly. "I don't know if I trust it. What if those are load-bearing walls? The whole house might collapse."

"Funny, that's what I thought when I first stepped into your house."

"I don't think even my room was ever in this bad a state, though," said Ron, and he was the first to step into the house, wand at the ready. "Come on, Harry. I don't smell any blood..."

"Come off it, Ron, you cannot _smell_ blood," said Hermione, incredulous.

"Just because you can't," replied Ron airily.

Their search of the house began. The sitting room and kitchen were in ruin, and not only was there no evidence of who or what caused the destruction, but it appeared that the house had been cleaned out before being demolished. There were bookshelves but no books or photographs on them, closets without any clothing in them, and cupboards that held not a crumb of food. There was an iron spiral staircase leading to the attic but it had been bent severely in the middle as though hit by a wrecking ball.

"This is definitely dodgy," said Harry as he finished up the vacant bedroom, which had not been affected by whatever had caused the mess in the rest of the house. "But I'm at a complete loss."

"BLOODY HELL!"

Ron's voice had echoed from the sitting room, and footsteps could be heard all around the house as Harry, Hermione, and Ginny rushed towards the sound of Ron's voice from different locations. They met up beside the demolished wall and peered inside. Ron was crawling on the floor at the center of the room, with one of his legs buried in the big crack in the floor.

"Ron, you gave me such a scare," said Ginny, sighing in relief. "Be more careful—"

"IT'S GOT ME!" Ron yelped, struggling against the floor.

"What—what's got you?" Hermione asked as she and Harry and Ginny approached carefully, wands raised.

"THE—AGH!"

There was an earthy grinding noise like a metal chain being pulled over a wooden rail, followed by a loud crack of shattering wood, and the hole in the floor widened. Harry, Ginny, and Hermione blanched identically as long green tendrils sprouted from the darkness and slithered over the broken planks towards their ankles, and they had to dive over piles of rubble to avoid them.

"_Incendio!_" Harry roared, taking aim and shooting a breath of fire out of the tip of his wand that scorched several of the thin green tendrils into ash.

Hermione and Ginny were doing the same, shooting flames at the thorny appendages that were bursting from every opening in the woodwork.

"Oh no!" Hermione cried. "Stop! Stop firing!"

Their streams of fire had caught on the wooden floor and furniture materials and combined into a larger flaming mass, forcing the attacking green vines to retreat back under the floor. Ron had been released and limped quickly away from the center of the floor, as it shook ominously.

"What the hell is that?" Ginny demanded, glancing at Hermione. "That isn't any ordinary Devil's Snare!"

"I don't know, it's hard to tell!" said Hermione. "But fire seems to work!"

"I'd say it works a bit too well!" said Harry, eyeing the growing conflagration in front of them. "We need to get out of here!"

"But we can't just burn somebody's house down!" Hermione protested. "We need water—Poseidum spells—"

"Who cares?" said Ron. "Someone's already destroyed it, probably that thing that just—"

Everyone went quiet as a great tremor shook the floor and made their knees wobble. The sunken void in the floor was growing, sucking in glass shards and debris all around it. Then something massive and green shot up from the darkness. It was a giant plant like nothing they had seen before; a tangle of stickerbrush so large it looked like an endlessly long, fat green python coiled up like intestines and covered in thorns.

"We don't need water, we need fire!" Ginny shrieked, readying her wand. "_Incendio!_"

But the core of the creature was too hardy to be damaged by a minor spell; Ginny's burst of fire only served to alert the creature of her presence. One thick thorny vine emerged from the green mass and lashed out at Ginny — Ron and Harry dove at the same time, tackling her to the ground — Ginny's cry of pain nearly drowned out Hermione's voice —

"_Divum Anima!_" she shouted.

A woosh of hot air flowed through the room towards the creature; it had no immediate effect on the creature itself, but the roaring fire that had spread up one of the nearby walls grew much more rapidly, fanned by Hermione's spell. The thorny plant thrashed its limbs wildly as the fire overtook it, until it became a dancing silhouette surrounded by flames.

"We need to put it out!" said Hermione. "If there's a forest fire in Hogsmeade it'll be our fault!"

"_Our_ fault? Who's the one that fed it?" said Ron. Hermione let out an impatient groan, and Ron quickly added, "Poseidums then?"

Hermione nodded, and began waving her wand in a circular motion as though stirring a big invisible cauldron. Water splashed out of the middle of the circle, lightly at first, then grew into a swirling torrent.

Ron had done the same, as Harry helped Ginny to stand and inspected her cuts. Ron and Hermione screwed up their faces in concentration as their balls of water merged into one at the center of the room, splashing gallons of water out in every direction, slowly extinguishing the fire. Then they relaxed their control of the water and it dropped to the hole in the floor, sending a big wave of muddy water throughout the room.

"We need to go," urged Harry. "In case the house collapses."

They hurried through the hallway and nearly tripped over the fallen front door as they exited the house. As soon as they were at a safe distance, Harry turned to Ginny and began lifting her shirt and exposing her stomach.

"The plant—whatever that thing was—it missed you, but you've got some cuts—yes, here," said Harry, circling around to Ginny's back and retrieving a bottle of dittany from his belt of Auror supplies. "They're not very deep. Probably from the glass on the ground. Thank Merlin."

"Jen's going to love that," Ginny grumbled, bracing herself in the cold November breeze. Jen was the name of the Holyhead Harpies' team trainer. "Hurry up, I'm freezing."

"There," said Harry, running his hand over Ginny's restored skin.

"That plant was a Honeybramble," said Hermione quietly. "We've studied them in Herbology, remember? Only we never worked with them."

"Wonder why?" Ron mumbled.

"Yes, well, they use their vines to dig tunnels in the ground. I've never heard of one tearing a house apart though."

"You think the plant was what ransacked the house?" said Harry dubiously.

"Yes. What else?"

"A wizard could have done it," Ginny suggested, and Harry nodded.

"I don't know..."

"Look, can we discuss this over a Butterbeer?" said Ron, his teeth chattering slightly. "I really can't handle this shit right after a transformation."

"There's no need to be vulgar, Ron, but I agree," said Hermione. "I could use one myself."

As they made their way back to the main trail towards Hogsmeade, Harry noticed something stuck to his shoe.

"Hold on, there's something..." Harry bent down and removed it; it was a folded piece of parchment. "What's this?"

It was a letter.

"A letter—hang on!" Harry was gobsmacked. "It's from Fudge!"

"Fudge?" Ron asked, his eyebrows raised. "Cornelius Fudge? Dingbat extraordinaire?"

"The very same!" Harry began to read the letter aloud. "_I'm not sure what rumors you've heard about me, but I cannot help you. I found your letter most alarming. _It cuts off. It's been singed," Harry explained. "But you can see the end of it. It reads: _the Daily Prophet is considered __a questionable publication and rightly so. Signed, Cornelius Fudge._"

Out of instinct, Harry handed the letter over to Hermione for her to inspect.

"Well, Hermione, you were right about this case," he admitted. "I'm intrigued."


	12. Livin' in America

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman. And so must El Chupacabras.

* * *

"If we haven't been assigned the case in any official capacity, I don't see any point in doing it," said Ernie in a heavy breath.

He was dragging himself out of the Ministry training dungeons along with Harry, Ron, and Clarinda, in a hurry to reach the big simmering cauldron of coffee at the far end of the Auror's office. The members of Teal Team Six had long since trained themselves to make a beeline for the coffee at the beginning of every lunch break to beat the rush, though the queues were much shorter now that Bluish-Purple Squad were the only other remaining trainees.

"Unless you think this will earn us some sort of accolade?" said Ernie curiously.

"That's why you became an Auror, then, is it?" Harry hounded. "God forbid you should enjoy doing a good deed without recognition!"

"_Hum!_" huffed Ron. "_I_ don't want to go through with it, and _good deeds without recognition_ is practically the title of my biography."

"Spare me."

"Ern's got a point though. Robards won't give us anything worth a Knut for working our arses off while everyone else is slacking off. What would the Prophet say? _Auror Office collaborates together in team effort, nabs thief, a credit to Robards' leadership._ We'd just be making him look good."

"I don't agree at all. I think that fish-wrapping material they call a newspaper would devour a story about the Boy Who Lived saving the day again. I wouldn't expect anything less of the Prophet," said Harry bitterly. "And after what we saw in Wielder's house, you're not at all curious?"

"Curious," Ron confirmed, "but not curious enough."

"What did you see, again?" asked Clarinda eagerly. Her energized legs had brought her to the cauldron first and she was now pouring herself a steaming cup of coffee.

"Hang on, Indigo's here," said Harry, nodding to Bluish-Purple squad, who were standing behind them in the queue.

"No sugar today in my coffee, no sugar today in my tea," said Clarinda determinedly.

"Won't kill ya, mate," said Ron.

"Don't enable me!"

Harry waited until the rest of his squad poured coffee for themselves and guided them to a more secluded corner of the office.

"They hack me right off, you know," said Clarinda once they were out of earshot of Bluish-Purple. "They keep saying 'crikey' to me. I've never said 'crikey' in my life! And the big one said I looked like a raccoon—"

"If you're done venting," said Harry in annoyance. "I'm trying to answer your question. We found the house ransacked, and there was a Honeybramble living under the floor. I've checked it in Goshawk's Guide to Herbology and wild Honeybrambles don't even grow in the British isles."

"But who would keep a Honeybramble under their house?" asked Ernie. "Is it an experiment? A pet?"

"Aha!" said Harry, gesturing at Ernie. "You're intrigued, aren't you?"

"I've never said it didn't sound interesting," said Ernie. "I just want to make sure we aren't wasting our time chasing after Herbologists. There's plenty to be getting on with as it is."

"What, hand-to-hand combat?" Harry asked, incredulous. "Investigating this thief that's been treating Knockturn Alley like the buffet at the Hogwarts end-of-the-year feast seems a better use of time than getting thrown around by Ron in the dungeons. And you weren't looking so smug when we were doing siege spells," Harry added at Ron's smirk.

"But that isn't our case to solve," reasoned Ernie. "Robards has got his paws all over it. He's been sending squads—"

"_Robards_ has been giving a bunch of poor sods busywork to maintain the illusion that he's doing something about it," said Harry. "I've had it with people like him in power. He's a fuckhead, a fucking shithead—"

"Quiet!" hissed Clarinda as they all glanced around hastily to make sure their boss wasn't around.

"He's just a shade above Fudge, if you ask me," Harry continued.

"And you want to be the Head Auror?" said Clarinda. "Bit early in your career for that, isn't it?"

"He _is_ Harry Potter," reasoned Ron.

"It doesn't have to be me, just someone competent," Harry explained. "Auror Selwyn, for instance."

"George says he got off with her," said Ron, and there was a round of chuckling.

"Be that as it may," said Harry, "Wielder's still missing. I think it's worth our time to get to the bottom of it, and if you two won't help..."

"I never said I wouldn't help," said Clarinda. "I think this is fascinating. Especially since I had a prophetic dream about Devil's Snare growing under my bed."

"Prophetic?"

"Well that's what happened at Wielder's house, isn't it? I got top marks in Divination, you know. Of course, this is a recurring dream, and I've had it since I was a kid, but the Inner Eye never sees clearly."

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on," murmured Harry.

"You're nasty today!"

"And you're not helping."

"Ron! Harry!" called a voice amidst the mass of cubicles beside them.

Harry and Ron made their way through the Auror headquarters towards the sound of Hermione's voice, and found her sitting at Ron's desk.

"Hey, Hermione," said Harry. "No lunch today, we've had protein draughts," he said, spotting the brown paper bag in her hands.

"Protein draughts?" she asked, setting the bag down.

"For building muscle," Ron explained as he stepped around Hermione and pulled out one of his desk drawers; it contained a tray of various condiment packets kept from Muggle takeout and salt and pepper shakers. "Just something Harry and I thought of. We're already killing ourselves in training, might as well get hench in the process. Reckon I might even be able to overpower Charlie one day."

"Hench?" Hermione repeated, staring at him amusedly. "You?"

"Yeah," said Ron in a defiant tone. "Silverware's in the other drawer."

"And where do you keep your office supplies?" she asked.

"In the _supply_ room, obviously."

"Ron, I don't think that's a good—oh, all right," she said impatiently. "Just don't get in trouble. Listen, I've just spoken with Parvati at Magical Transport, and she's told me that Wielder arranged an international Portkey two days prior to our—er—_visit_."

"What was the destination?" Harry asked.

"Mexico. I've done some more research on it, and all records point to that as his birthplace. That's all I could find on our end, though."

"So that's why that Honeybramble got out of control, then, because he fled the country?" said Ron. "Case closed, innit?"

"No, it still doesn't add up. He may very well come back. I think we ought to owl the Mexican ministry. If it's his birthplace they'll be able to give us more information on him. We'll see if he's got a criminal record."

"Send an owl to the west?" said Harry skeptically. "It'd take ages to handle it that way. We should go there ourselves—remember, we're racing Robards on this."

"Honestly, Harry, it's like you only care about your career," teased Hermione.

"Forgive me, but I wasn't exactly sympathetic when someone cleaned all those dangerous objects off of Borgin's shelves. Frankly, I'd rather see them all belong to one criminal than up for sale at a crime hotspot."

"Hang on, I must've misheard," said Ron. "Are you saying that we should travel to bloody Mexico on some vague lead about a case we're not even supposed to be working on?"

"It would be fun to visit Mexico," said Hermione. "We haven't learned much about the wizarding New World from History of Magic, have we? We could visit a few museums, learn about the culture—"

"Oh that sounds like fun!"

"Don't be silly, Ron. You enjoyed Egypt, didn't you? And I don't believe you'd fancy staying behind while Harry and I go?"

"No, I suppose not," Ron sighed.

"Then it's settled," decided Hermione cheerfully. "Want a bite of my sandwich? Your mother says I'm advancing quite well."

"Anyone can make a sandwich," Ron mumbled, but he took a bite nonetheless, and immediately winced. "Corned beef? Yeah, you're learning from Mum all right."

"Right then," said Harry. "A weekend in Mexico. I'll tell Ginny."

Ginny's response, however, had disappointed Harry once they had returned to Grimmauld Place.

"I can't go," she said. "I've got practice Saturday and a game on Monday. Shootarounds in the morning—"

"Before the sun, I know," sighed Harry, rubbing his bum which was sore from repeated crash landings in the day's combat training. Clarinda had taught him a valuable lesson in low center of gravity. "Can't you skip the practice?"

"No, I've missed enough already," said Ginny firmly. "It's just a weekend, Harry, what's got you so upset?"

"I'm not upset," said Harry quickly. In truth, his mind had already spawned vague plans of proposing to Ginny on a sunny beach in Mexico. He regained his composure and glanced over at Ron and Hermione as they sat on the couch at the other end of the living room. Hermione, book in hand, was attempting to teach Ron Spanish.

"No, that doesn't end with 'a,'" Hermione was saying. "You've got to remember the gender—"

"Words don't have genders!" said Ron exasperatedly. "Not in any sane language, at least!"

"Words don't have genders, but you're questioning a language's mental health?" she shot back. "If we're going to properly visit Mexico, we simply _must_ learn rudiamentary Spanish. The basics, at least."

"Yeah? Did you learn any Bulgarian before you visited—"

"This again!" Hermione let out a hollow laugh. "I've never visited Bulgaria in my life, Ron, have I?"

"Well..."

"And who did I spend that particular summer with, anyway?"

"Me," Ron admitted.

"Thank you."

"Krum's a git."

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned a page in her Spanish book. "Stop it," she said. "Now, if you're asking to see the loo..."

"No more Spanish," Ron cut in. "No, Hermione. You can't learn a language on such short notice. This is making me want to smash my" — Ron leaned next to the glaring Hermione and glanced down at the book — "_cabeza_ into a wall."

Harry turned his attention away from Ron and Hermione and looked back at Ginny. "Don't leave me alone with them," he pleaded, gesturing towards the bickering couple.

"I'm sorry," she sniggered, sounding nothing of the sort. "I've already been to Egypt anyway, and one trip to the desert is enough for this ginger. I'm surprised Ron's keen on the idea."

"I've got official orders with me," said Ron, nodding towards Hermione.

"What's that?" Ginny asked, and that's when Harry noticed Ron was carrying a big brown disk under his arm.

"It's the Portkey," Ron replied. "Parvati's arranged it for us."

"It's a potter's wheel," added Hermione, and then she grinned and paused, waiting for the pun to sink in.

"Ha-ha," huffed Harry dully. "That Parvati's got a wicked sense of humor, eh?"

"Yeah, she does, where's yours?" said Hermione. "Come on, it's a potter's wheel, and you're Potter, and it's being used to transport you!"

"Like a real-life wheel!" barked a voice from across the room. Sirius Black had awoken in his portrait. At this, Harry sniggered. "You weren't going to leave without saying goodbye, Harry?"

"'Course not," said Harry. Ginny kissed him goodbye with haste. His hand then joined those of Ron and Hermione on the wheel and Ginny backed away. "Goodbye, Sirius. See you Monday, love. Good luck this weekend."

"You too, love," said Sirius.

"I was talking to Ginny—I'll be listening on the wireless. Goodbye."

"See you then," Ginny responded quickly.

A few moments passed with Harry, Ron, and Hermione staring expectantly at the big round object.

"Any second now," Harry assured.

"I say, Portkeys are the most awkward of transportation methods—oh, there they go," said Sirius casually as Harry, Ron, and Hermione whirled toward the ceiling as though lifted by a powerful tornado and spun until they disappeared.

Harry felt a familiar tug at his navel as his vision was lost in a twisted blur. He had never travelled this far by Portkey before, and after nearly a minute in a perpetually spinning world where Harry could distinguish little more than brown shapes and Ron's red hair, the effect began to take its toll.

They landed with a thud against a bed of soft yet prickly material. Harry was so dizzy it took him a second before he could identify it as a landing pad made up of several stacked bales of hay. Beside him, Hermione was laboring to remove several of the small yellow straws from her hair.

After he had adjusted his glasses and allowed his eyes to refocus, Harry saw that he had fallen into a very small room about the size of a bathroom stall. It reminded him of the dressing rooms in Muggle shops, but with the smooth, milky wooden walls of a log cabin.

"Gerroff!" Ron groaned. Harry had landed on him.

"Sorry," said Harry, shifting his weight off of Ron and standing to his feet.

After they rose to their feet and brushed themselves off, Hermione nodded towards the room's only exit. They left the small room and found themselves standing inside what looked like a cross between a massive barn and a mineshaft. Harry got the immediate impression that it was what the grand staircase at Hogwarts would look like if the stairs could not move; dusty wooden walkways bridged the many floors in every possible direction, creating a spiderweb of wood and rope on every level. The hall was illuminated by thousands of lit torches, swinging lanterns, and flickering lightbulbs that gave every surface a fluctuating golden ambiance.

"Merlin," mumbled Ron as he deposited the used Portkey into a designated disposal bin just outside the door.

"Welcome to North America," said a voice behind them.

A man in Muggle clothing had been waiting beside the door. He had round spectacles that reminded Harry of his own, though twice as thick. His thin face was scrunched in a big, friendly smile and he had short, frizzy blonde hair that stood on end as though he had just received an electric shock.

"You must be Mr. Triggs," said Harry, shaking the man's outstretched hand.

"Call me Milo," he insisted. "Oh boy, you are the real deal, aren't you?"

"Harry Potter, yeah," said Harry, resisting the urge to cover up his scar.

"And his loyal cohorts, Ron and Hermione?"

Ron and Hermione introduced themselves, and Milo turned his attention back to Harry.

"When I got your owl, I couldn't believe it," he said, shaking his head slowly. "We don't get too many owls over here to begin with. We use eagles for transatlantic communication and they aren't always friendly to other birds. When I saw it was from Harry Potter, I thought was a practical joke, but when I saw that it had the official British Ministry letterhead... I hope I did you a favor by keeping it under wraps. I think it's safe to say more than a few people here would be excited about this."

"Thank you," said Harry. "I only wish people back home were as thoughtful."

Milo smiled wider and began walking past the row of doors marked Arrivals and towards the main hall, gesturing for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to follow.

"Some folks here think you're just a legend," Milo continued as they walked into the twisting crowd of Ministry employees that were moving in all directions.

"Do they really?" said Harry. "Well, I exist, and I'm an Auror. I need to access a criminal record."

"You'll have to speak with Soledad about that—Soledad Arena. He maintains the archives."

"Is that where you're taking us?"

"Yep."

"I'm confused," said Ron, his head tilted up as he looked around the grand hall. "I thought this was the Mexican Ministry?"

"Oh no, this is the primary ministry for all of North America," Milo explained. "This branch was founded by the Aztecs. Most American wizards belong to indigenous tribes, and they're separated by tribal territories, not the borders of the newer Muggle countries. We are separated into Mexican, United States, and Canadian divisions. Though, we do have a former capitol up north. Great country up 'dere," he added with a chuckle, affecting an odd sort of accent; if it was a joke, Ron didn't seem to get it.

Harry apprehended from Milo's tone that he enjoyed explaining things to people. He had just entertained the thought of suggesting that Milo apply as Professor Binns' long overdue replacement at Hogwarts when Ron frowned and said, "So I didn't have to learn all that Spanish?"

"Oh no, all that hard work down the drain," said Hermione dryly.

As they passed through the thick crowd, Harry marveled at the diversity of the Ministry employees and guests. Most were what Uncle Vernon would call Red Indians, clad in thin cloth, animal hide, and denim; there were also black wizards and witches dressed in Muggle clothes, conversing in English; though there was no shortage of caucasian wizards, dressed mainly in colonial garb; the few European wizards seemed out of place in traditional black robes that would have been uniform at the English Ministry.

Unlike the English Ministry, the employees did not seem to recognize Harry. Milo, however, attracted a lot of attention. He reminded Harry of Arthur Weasley the way employees from every level were familiar with him.

They passed several different offices on their journey through the walkways and staircases across the main hall. There was a Floo area where witches and wizards were emerging from the emerald-green flames of open campfires and disappearing into others. Most of the different departments existed within teepees that were enchanted in the same manner as magical tents, with interiors larger than their exteriors.

Harry recognized the visitor's entrance by two colossal, blocky statues that stood guard at the gates, peering down at passersby and occasionally smacking each other with their stone swords; they didn't seem to get along. A wide cloth banner hung down over the visitor's entrance, flashing different messages as though there were an invisible projector in the doorway; it was currently an advertisement for Bob Winter's Famous Steaks ("_I kill the cows myself!_")

Hermione's wide eyes scanned every bit of their surroundings with excitement, and she frequently alerted Harry and Ron to points of interest, even if they weren't particularly interesting.

They soon arrived at a teepee with a crooked wooden sign posted beside it, marked _Magical Police Dept._ Milo led thim into the teepee and they found themselves in a grid of cubicles similar to their Auror Headquarters, but with a noticeable lack of paper airplanes zipping overhead. Instead, large puffs of smoke littered the air, as though the occupants of the cubicles were on fire.

"Smoke signals," Milo explained. He glanced at an elaborate smoke formation over a nearby cubicle and flinched. "Gee, that guy's a real cut-up, huh? Hey, watch your language, Pendergraph!" He admonished, standing on his toes to peek over a cubicle wall. "Good thing Cook's not here to see that. He's the head of the department. Hopefully we won't run into him."

Harry merely nodded awkwardly, though he felt he could relate.

"Milo, I've noticed something," said Hermione. "I've yet to see any Magical Creatures here other than humans."

"You didn't see the Chenoo?" Milo asked in disbelief. "They're pretty hard to miss. Big stone giants, can't stand each other, like to intimidate humans..."

"I thought those were bewitched statues," mused Harry.

"Nope. Why do you ask, anyway?" Milo asked, stopping in place and turning back to Hermione.

"I was just wondering if other part-human or sentient creatures had their own Ministry, or their own branch?"

Ron groaned, a knowing look dawning on his face, but Hermione ignored him.

"We don't get many of those creatures in America. No, it's mostly humans. Anything else will kill ya."

"What about... Elves?" asked Hermione, her casual tone betrayed by Ron's eye-roll.

"House Elves?" Milo shook his head. "We've got something similar, called Menehune. But they only clean your house as a reward for good deeds. Slavery isn't very popular in America these days."

Hermione smiled brightly at that, but Harry and Ron knew that this was information Hermione had already researched, and, sensing that she was eager to learn more, they urged Milo to start walking again.

"Here we are," said Milo as they arrived at a door of hanging colored beads that formed the crude image of a solid red bird over a tan backdrop. "These are the archives."

They ducked through the beads and found themselves in a dark room of incredibly tall steel shelves, each with thousands of labeled compartments. A fluctuating golden glow shimmered off of the high shelves illuminated by swinging lamps hanging from the ceiling, the light not quite reaching the floor.

At the end of the long aisle in the center of the room was a man sitting at a desk, scribbling away at some paperwork.

"Hey, Soledad," said Milo when they finally reached the man.

Soledad was chubby and had tan skin, neatly combed black hair, and a square face.

"Triggs," he said, not looking up from his writing. "Qué pasa? Crop circles still giving you trouble?"

"I keep handing out the citations, the kids keep doing it," sighed Milo. "But that's not why I'm here."

"Then why—" Soledad paused as he looked up and caught sight of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Oh, I'm sorry. Hello," he said, putting his papers away.

"Hola," said Hermione, grinning and extending her hand. "I'm Hermione Granger. I'm with the British Ministry of Magic."

"Hermione Granger?" Soledad frowned as he shook her hand. "And you..."

"Harry Potter," said Harry, shaking Soledad's hand briefly.

Soledad's eyes went over Harry's scar, then he looked to Milo, who nodded fervently.

"Hey, this day just got interesting," he said. He looked to Ron, and said, "So you must be Wiggleby? Kidding!" he said at Ron's scowl. "Of course I know who Ron Weasley is. Nice to meet you."

"Right," Ron grumbled. "Didn't realize Rita's books had gone international."

"I've got to go make sure Pendergraph isn't fooling around up there," said Milo. Soledad tutted, shaking his head. "I'll be outside, Harry."

He gave Harry another friendly smile and walked away.

"It's a wonder Penny hasn't been canned," said Soledad under his breath. "We used to crack jokes at his stupidity, but eventually it—well, it brings to mind analogies involving fish and barrels. So, how can I help you?"

"We're doing a background check on a man that may have come from this area," Harry explained. "A man named Sef Wielder."

"Wielder? Hey, that's a tricky one, Mr. Potter. Sounds like an English word, which means he could be Native. The Natives' names are often translated into their English meanings when used in the English language."

"What about the given name?" asked Ron. "'Sef?'"

"That was the given name? I thought you had something stuck in your throat or something. My mistake, amigo," he told Harry, chuckling. "Seth Wielder—I'm sorry, _Sef_—that sounds more like an English name. Hey, I'll check the W's."

"Thank you," said Harry.

"Hey, anything for Harry Potter. My kids love you," said Soledad as he stood up and made his way down a nearby row of shelves.

Harry forced a smile and followed him. As it turned out, retrieving a record was a simple matter of standing before the correct shelf and requesting it by name.

"Wielder," said Soledad, to no avail. "Sef Wielder?" he tried. Nothing.

"It's actually pretty rare that nothing turns up at all, even a birth record," he said. "Then again, if he's Native, we'd need the actual name."

"But you can find that out, can't you?" asked Hermione.

"No, you'd need an Elder for that. This ministry is disastrously unorganized at the moment. There's a culture class between the colonist wizards and the indigenous tribes, even if the wars ended long ago. Best to seek out an Elder; there's one who lives in the hut on top of the Tough Times cafe in Hiawatha Valley," he explained. "His name is Old Panther, or at least that's what he calls himself. If you can stand the smell long enough to ask him, you should pay him a visit."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione thanked Soledad and bade him goodbye. When they left the archives, they found a weary-looking Milo stepping out of a cubicle that had a nameplate that read _Pendergraph._

"Find anything?" Milo asked when he caught sight of them. Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry. The Archives here are largely incomplete. Native Americans aren't exactly synonymous with written records."

"There's still hope, though, isn't there?" said Hermione. "Soledad said a man named Old Panther could help."

"Panther?" Milo's jaw dropped a bit. "Yes—yes he could, I guess."

"Could you take us to the Tough Times cafe?" she asked.

"Er, I don't think... maybe..." Milo cleared his throat and cast a quick glance around the bustling city of cubicles. "Moose!" he called suddenly. "Come over here!"

Milo's call was answered by a tall, gangly black wizard dressed in casual Muggle attire. 'Moose,' Harry surmised, was a nickname; the man's long, bony face was rather mooselike.

"I was _almost_ out the door," said Moose longingly. "What do you need?"

"Half day today?" asked Milo with a grin. "Well then you're going into the city anyway, right? All I'm asking is that you take these three along."

Moose apparently hadn't noticed Harry, Ron, and Hermione standing next to him. He cocked an eyebrow, then turned back to Milo, and said, "I was gonna Floo, actually. Got a date tonight."

"Oh come on, don't you know who this is?" Milo insisted, gesturing to the trio. "Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Ring any bells?"

"Really?" asked Moose, his round eyes growing wide as he surveyed them. "Why didn't you say so? And I almost left..."

"Guys, this is Moose," Milo introduced as Moose extended a big, gangly hand for them to shake.

"How's it going?" he said, flashing a big yellow-toothed smile. "Heading to Hiawatha? Let's get a move on."

"Wait!" Milo began rummaging through his pockets, then pulled out a small bronze key with a number _21_ tag attached to it. "This is your room key at the Seward Inn. It's the biggest building in the city, you can't miss it," he said, handing the key to Harry.

"So, where to?" Moose asked over his shoulder after they said goodbye to Milo and started down the aisle towards the exit.

"The Tough Times cafe," said Hermione.

Moose clicked his teeth, amused. "Why would you wanna go there? You know there's an Elder living in the attic?"

"That's who we intend to meet," said Harry slowly. "And why shouldn't we?"

"They just smoke some weird tobacco, s'all," said Moose dismissively. "Stuff's like smelling salt, and it sticks to your clothes."

They exited the department and once again found themselves in a sea of Ministry employees. It appeared that word had spread that Harry Potter and his friends were in the building. Starstruck witches and wizards were emerging from the mouths of the teepees that lined the hall and pointing Harry out to their colleagues.

Moose wasn't as popular as Milo, it seemed, but he commanded a noticeable respect from the surrounding mob; they looked as though they ached to swarm Harry with questions, but stopped themselves from getting too close.

"It's him!"

"Look at the scar!"

"Harry!"

"Can I be in Dumbledore's Army?"

"Sorry about this," Moose mumbled.

"It's fine, it's the same back home," Harry replied.

Moose cracked a grin and approached another, shorter black wizard with thick eyebrows and an impatient air about himself.

"Mohammed, I'm gonna need to see some work out'cha," said Moose, nodding towards the surrounding crowd. Mohammed promptly began herding the gawkers away by shooting sparks out of his wand and waving it about.

They made their way through a catacomb of rope bridges and creaky wooden staircases until they reached the ground floor of the atrium. There was a commotion at the visitor's entrance, where one of the massive blocky Chenoo that guarded the gate had severed the other's head and was refusing to give it back; Moose instructed them to keep quiet and they snuck across the atrium unnoticed.

"The Tough Times had their Floo Network access revoked," said Moose as they arrived at a row of campfires in a bed of soft dirt. "Whole lotta drunks trying to Floo out of there at night. They wind up in all sorts of places, and the Muggles can only blame space aliens for so much before they start to catch on, y'know. The closest fire is at the bazaar on Hogride Road. Follow me."

Moose crouched and scooped up a handful of soft soil from the ground, then stepped over a nearby campfire with the dirt streaming from between his bony knuckles. He then dropped the soil over the fire in which he stood. "Hogride Road Bazaar!" he exclaimed as he was consumed by roaring green fire.

"They use dirt as Floo powder?" Ron asked, grabbing a handful of soil from the ground. "Everything is so barmy here."

"It's not barmy, Ron, it's a different culture," said Hermione.

"Those statues were barmy," Ron affirmed.

Flooing by campfire, it turned out, was a much smoother experience. There were no stone chimneys to bang your elbows on, and spotting the right location at which to stop was much easier outdoors.

Once they had arrived at the fire outside the Hogride Road Bazaar, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were speechless as they surveyed the surrounding desert. They felt like aliens themselves as they observed scattered cacti, stagecoaches, bristly bushes, and skeletons of cattle and birds. The long black road beside them was the only road in sight and stretched all the way over the horizon, betwixt faraway hoodoo rock formations in the distance.

"Come on," said Moose. "We have some walking to do. Just a mile or so."

And so they walked. It was only a short while before the city of Hiawatha Valley came into view and the road began to curl down a cliffside into the valley below, but by the time they reached the city, they were sweating under the hot sun.

"Haven't you Americans ever heard of clouds?" Ron groaned, cupping his hand over his eyes and looking up at the solid blue sky.

"You live here long enough, you get used to it," said Moose, who had not shed a drop of sweat.

"I'll pass," Ron mumbled.

Hiawatha Valley was a different sight from the deserted road above, with colorful storefronts of all sorts of shops and residences with big grass yards and gardens. The roads were cluttered with rolling wagons, coaches, and a few ancient-looking sputtering cars.

They passed through a pleasant neighborhood of pretty houses, vibrant green trees and sparkling fountains and swimming pools in many of the yards. A modern skyscraper stood tall at the center of the city, with a bunch of big red letters atop it that spelled _Seward Inn_.

"This is the place," said Moose.

The Tough Times was a two-story cafe with a sign outside that simply read _Bar & Grill_. The building's chipped paint and odd trinkets in the windows reminded Harry of the derelict buildings at Grimmauld Place. Emanating from it was the constant rowdy clamor of its patrons, and the whole area was polluted with a foul stench from the blacksmith shop across the street.

"If you're gonna eat here, just keep it simple—a B.L.T. or something," Moose suggested. "Don't get the chicken wings."

Ron's face fell.

"I have plans tonight, so I'll be going—wait, just a second," said Moose, breaking out in a grin. "One thing before I go... did you three really rob a bank with a dragon?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared a quizzical look, then turned back to Moose and spoke at the same time. Harry said "no," while Hermione said "not exactly," and Ron said "yeah."

"We escaped on the dragon," said Harry.

"And you didn't get arrested?" Moose chuckled. "Man, those books were right, you really can get away with anything. Well, nice meeting you. Peace."

Harry thanked Moose for his help and Moose Disapparated with a _*crack*_.

"_Peace?_" Ron asked after Moose had gone, but Harry and Hermione merely shrugged in equal bewilderment.

"I might fancy a B.L.T., actually," said Hermione, turning her attention back on the cafe in front of them.

Together, they stepped through the glass double doors of the Tough Times cafe. Their nostrils were relieved as the foul smell of the blacksmith's was replaced by the scent of hash browns and beer. The floor was made of very old and dusty plastic tile and was covered in scratch marks from the legs of many metal chairs.

"I didn't expect it to be quite this crowded from Moose's opinion of this place," said Harry as they approached the bar. "Three B.L.T.s, please," he told the barman.

"Sir, I wonder if you've seen our friend?" said Hermione in an attempt at a casual tone as the barman retrieved a packet of Bob Winter's Famous Bacon ("_I kill the pigs myself!_") from the pantry behind the bar. "He's called Wielder. Dark-skinned fellow."

The barman's eyebrows shot up over his thick square glasses. Before he could respond, however, he was distracted by something behind them. He smirked, and yelled "Aw, shit!"

Confused, Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned around and saw a scuffle taking place near the front door. Several wizards dressed in colonial outfits Harry recognized from the Magical Police Department were apprehending a few seedy-looking men in black robes. The American Aurors captured the black-robed men in a matter of seconds, and began hauling them away.

"Damn cultists, they never let up," one of them said with a southern drawl.

A young man emerged from the commotion with a green duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his shaggy blonde hair shifting with every step.

"I want a chilli dog and lots of fries, and a beer," he announced, dropping his bag on the counter and taking a seat at one of the stools.

"Funny you should show up here, Sky," the barman replied. "These British folks are looking for your brother."

"He ain't my brother," said Sky testily as he reached over the counter and began filling a tall glass of beer from the tap.

"He says that now," the barman told Hermione in an undertone. "But they were inseparable. Always playing their stupid tricks on Muggle tourists. Prancing around with that silly dance craze, the Sprain."

"_The Sprain!_" groaned Sky in agony. "Don't bring it up!"

"So you know Wielder?" Hermione asked eagerly.

"Nope," Sky replied without looking. He then took a swig of beer and wiped away the foamy residue left on his stubbly beard with his sleeve, and said, "Whoever told you that was real mistaken."

"Please—Sky, was it? We need information on this man because we strongly suspect—"

"Look, lady—" Sky fell silent as he turned around and caught sight of Hermione. He then smiled, leaned back in his seat, and said, "Well, hello."

"Hi" — Ron cut in, stepping in front of Hermione and blocking her from view — "Ron Weasley," he said, extending his hand.

"My name's Kenny," said Sky slowly, his eyes narrowed, but he smiled again when Hermione stepped out from behind Ron with an expression reminiscient of Professor McGonagall and Ron edged away from her a bit.

"If there's anything you can tell us, such as his real name," she began, but Sky shook his head.

"I ain't tellin' you a thing," he said.

"We're British officers with the English Ministry," said Harry impatiently. "We're Aurors. If you know anything, you're required by law—"

"Yeah, well, I'm a member of the Junior Rainbow Rangers. Doesn't mean anything around here."

"I think it does," Harry countered. "Because we're collaborating with your Ministry on the case. I expect Milo Triggs, the Deputy Chief at the Magical Police Department, means something around here."

To Harry's annoyance, Sky snorted at this. "_Triggs_ is gonna make me talk? Triggs couldn't arrest me if he caught me pissing in the town square. Go and tell him I'm not talkin'. Tell him Kenny said so."

Harry made to respond, but he noticed Ron's hands had balled up into fists at his sides, and decided it was best to whisk Ron away and go find a table. Hermione followed with their tray of food and they found a seat at a booth in the back.

"Veritaserum, I reckon," Ron suggested as they sat down. Harry nodded.

"_What?_" Hermione gasped. "Ron, you can't!"

"_Hermione_," Ron groaned. "You were the one that wanted to come all this way following little bread crumb trails and suddenly a big tray of biscuits falls right into our lap and now _you_ don't want to take a bite?"

"That was a mixed metaphor—"

"Wielder's childhood friend!" Ron urged, gesturing towards the bar; Harry glanced in the same direction and saw that Sky's seat was empty.

"It's no use now," said Harry. "He's gone."

"You can't just spike people's drinks with truth serum, especially not here. What if our Ministry received word of it?" said Hermione as Ron angrily chomped on his sandwich. "Honestly!"

"He could be an accomplice!" Ron argued.

"Very possibly he is, but—well, you know what they say about catching flies?"

"What, then?" Ron demanded. "What were you going to do, seduce him?"

"Sometimes I wonder why I've come to think of you as intelligent!"

"_Becuh' I am_," said Ron through a mouthful of bacon and bread.

"We've still got an Elder to meet," said Harry. Ron and Hermione noticed his weary tone and silently came to a truce. "If the barman here knows Wielder, then the Elder will too, won't he?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione deposited their dishes at the bar and inquired about meeting Old Panther. The barman pointed them to a door behind the counter. Atop a narrow staircase and beyond another wall of patterned beads, they found themselves in a very dimly lit room. The walls shone different colors by the glow of steaming potions that hung in rows on the walls like multicolored lanterns. A long red carpet stretched out from their feet to the end of the room, where what looked like a big breathing lump of clothes sat atop a very large cushion.

Harry met Ron's eyes, then Hermione's, then nodded and started moving forward. He had only taken one step onto the red carpet, his leg becoming enveloped in a yellow-tinted light, when the man at the end of the room spoke.

"Who's there?"

Harry squinted through the darkness. He could barely make out the whites of the man's eyes.

"My name is Harry Potter," he said. "These are my friends, Ron and Hermione. We're Aurors with the English Ministry of Magic."

It was a few seconds before the man responded. He emitted a low croaking laugh.

"I've heard a lot of bullshit in my day, but that's a good one. Who is this, really? Is that you, Dale? I already told you, if it burns when you piss, then you need a Healer, not an Elder—"

"Please, sir, he's not lying," said Hermione quickly, raising her voice in an attempt to mask Ron's laughter. "We're here searching for a suspect and we believe you might be able to help us!"

"Come over here, then, before my voice gives out!"

The Elder came into clear view once they got closer. He was a very old man wrapped in an off-white robe, with saggy, wrinkled skin that drooped under his chin and jowls. From his long grey hair to the tiny dreamcatchers hanging from his earlobes, every bit of him looked ancient except for his eyes, which were a blank white.

"Are you Old Panther?" Harry asked.

"Obviously."

"And do you know a man named Wielder?"

"I do."

Hermione gasped hopefully, and flashed Harry a smile. He turned back to Panther and asked, "Then you must know his real name?"

"No."

Harry blanched.

"But you're an Elder..."

"A Sioux Elder," Panther corrected. "We Indians hail from many different tribes. I know this man is not like the Sioux. He does not embrace the benevolent spirits. Then again, this is not Sioux land." He turned his head in Harry's direction, staring blindly at the space over Harry's shoulder. "Why do you seek this man?" he asked.

"He's a suspect in a criminal investigation."

"Cow-tipping?" Panther asked before breaking out into a wheezy laugh.

"No, I'm afraid it's much more serious. It's a string of burglaries in England."

"He traveled to England, you say?" at this, the laughter faded from Panther's tone. He tensed his eyebrows in interest. "I wondered why things had gone quiet here as of late... still waters... I thought perhaps it was all the tension brewing in the shadow of that monstrosity that Bob Winter built in the middle of the city."

"You're talking about the Seward Inn?" Hermione asked.

"Yes. It's nothing more than a tourist trap. Winter's meats were bad enough. You have to feed your cattle grass for supple meat, you know? And now he's made the same mistake with this hotel chain. It's an unmistakable statement; a message of colonialist white culture."

"Er, right," said Harry uncertainly. "But about Wielder, the barman downstairs said something about Wielder committing petty crimes along with a man named Kenny."

"They are close," Panther said. "In fact, I might get an inkling that something was going on between them if Sky didn't incessantly pursue my granddaughter."

"But isn't that rather suspicious?"

"No, I don't think so. If anyone is suspicious, it is the red-haired one."

"What—how did you—hang on, you can see?" Ron whispered.

Panther did not answer. Instead, he drew from his robe a curled goat horn that had been fashioned into a pipe. With his other hand, he drew his wand and lit the pipe, and took a heavy puff of red smoke from the other end. As he inhaled, his solid white eyes filled with scarlet fog like little crystal balls.

"Bloody hell..."

"Wolf-dog," said Panther finally. "Half wolf, half husky. That's what I see."

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth, and Harry's jaw dropped.

"How did you know?" Ron asked.

"Those potions aren't just for decoration," Panther replied.

Ron turned around and noticed that a cobalt cauldron on the wall beside him was releasing wisps of blue smoke that stretched around him like a big ghostly tentacle. He whipped his arm around, trying to shake the fumes off, but they only grew thicker and clinged to his clothes.

"If there's anything else you can tell us," Harry began, turning back to Panther, but Panther raised a hand.

"I don't think I have anything else to say. It is not my place. However, I think there may be someone who can tell you plenty. A man well-versed in Muggle magic... perhaps too well-versed..."

"Who?"

"He was never given a name I could commit to memory, I'm afraid. If you weren't the famous Harry Potter, the hero of the European wizard war that granddaughter swoons over, I'd probably have forgotten yours by now. The smoke will only wane if you distance yourself from the pot, werewolf," he added.

"My name's not 'werewolf!'" Ron coughed, now completely obscured by blue fog. "I'll just—_*cough*_—I'll just be going now..."

"Goodbye then. Unless, of course, you're interested in purchasing a dead fish?"

"No thanks," said Harry.

"Can all the Natives tell I'm a werewolf?" Ron asked, brushing smoke off of his shoulders, as they ambled down the stairs on their way out.

"I'd hate to think so," said Hermione breathlessly. "But then, if they can, they're the most werewolf-tolerant people I've ever seen."

"He didn't seem tolerant of me," Ron mumbled.

"Muggle magic," said Harry absentmindedly.

"What, like George sells at the Joke Shop? Card tricks?" Ron asked. "I've just about had it with this case, you know. I'm not going to play Niffler all across this city in search of a Muggle magic-man."

"The people here don't seem to want to help us, do they?" Hermione agreed. "Yet they all seem to know this Wielder. Do you think they're hiding something?"

"Oi, barman!" Harry huffed as they passed the bar. "Have you seen anyone doing Muggle card tricks around—" Harry faltered as his eyes fell upon the barman's nametag. "_You're_ Dale?"

"Yeah," replied Dale.

"Well, good luck with pee—with everything, and all. Goodbye."

"See any Muggle Magicators?" Ron asked, yawning and stretching as they walked out into the sun and set off down a road towards the towering Seward Inn at the center of the city.

"I think our only conclusive lead is that Kenny bloke," Harry said seriously. "Perhaps Wielder is mentioned in Kenny's files?"

"He definitely seems to know Milo Triggs," Hermione added. "Milo might be able to give us more information."

"Look at these old bangers," said Ron, eyeing the rusty old cars that passed them on the street. "Actually makes me proud to own a Ford Anglia."

"Ooh, look!" Hermione exclaimed, pointing ahead to a very large modern-looking building that closely resembled a small stadium. Arcing over the front door in sparkling gold lettering was _Magical Museum of Hiawatha._ "It's a magical museum. I've read about these, they're quite popular in America."

Harry and Hermione looked at Ron as though awaiting his objection.

"What am I, the bane of learning?" said Ron. "I'm interested in this stuff too, you know."

"I think you swayed him with that comment about his intelligence earlier," Harry whispered in Hermione's ear, and she chuckled.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione chorused relieved sighs as they entered the museum; it had been fixed with a much-needed Cooling Charm. Before he had entered the museum, Harry had surmised that everything was different in America, but this building bore a remarkable resemblance to every other museum he had ever been to (though he was usually made to stay in the car), with reflective marble floors and sunlight shining through ceiling-high windows.

The first exhibit Harry expected to see was a standing skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. He felt like a child experiencing magic for the first time when he discovered that this museum's skeletal Rex was alive; it flexed its enchanted bones menacingly and attempted to roar at passersby, though its lungless ribcage made no noise other than rattling.

The witches and wizards scattered around the museum didn't seem like locals. They were mostly tourists, looking around at each exhibit in awe. Harry tried in vain to pat his hair down over his scar as he and Ron and Hermione made their way to a ticket booth in the front lobby, circling widely around the giant skeleton's pedestal.

"Thank you, and please do not use magic in this building," said the guard behind the booth, accepting their money and handing them passes to wear around their necks. "And don't try to take the Muggle money on display, because it's fake."

"Ooh, where do we start?" said Hermione eagerly as they came to a fork in the hallway. "It looks like Magical Creatures are this way, and American Magical History & Muggle Settlers are down that hallway."

Harry and Ron outvoted Hermione in favor of Magical Creatures and they started off down a hallway with paintings, animal skulls, and wilderness scenes on display at either side.

The first exhibit featured a creature called the Jackalope: a hare with the antlers of a deer. According to the card under an encased set of Jackalope antlers, the Jackalope can perfectly mimic any sound it hears.

Hermione swooned over the Jackalope, but she was much less fond of the next creature exhibit, which was El Chupacabras. It could be described as a giant slender rodent with burning red eyes, a thin forked tongue sticking out between four fangs as long as steak knives, and spines protruding in a line from the base of its neck all the way down its devilish tail.

"I've heard about these," said Harry.

"El Chupacabras, or 'The Goatsucker,' is so named because it survives by drinking the blood of farm animals, mainly goats, and does not generally attack humans unless threatened," Hermione read. "They are born as winged snakes and sprout limbs in their youth. Their discarded wings are used as a rare Potions ingredient. Males are identified by the spines on their backs."

"They're just delightful," Ron mused, as the stuffed Chupacabras in the glass case plunged its fangs into its stuffed goat companion and attempted to suck its blood.

Next they passed a standing skeleton that looked eerily human, though it was big enough to be Hagrid's. Harry recognized the animal in the drawings as the creature called Bigfoot he had seen on Muggle television.

"The sasquach is a creature of near-human intelligence," Hermione read. "It is most skilled in silent Apparition, which has allowed it to evade capture by Muggles and wizards alike. Its remains sink into the Earth after death and are said to attract invigorating spirits."

"I know what you're thinking," said Ron, "but I don't think you should make it your personal mission to get these hairy things a chair at the American Ministry."

Hermione grinned and led the way to the next display case. As they continued down the hall, they learned of various Magical Creatures. Squonks; wart-covered creatures that cannot bear to be seen by human eyes, and will cry themselves to death if spotted. Axehandle Hounds; dogs with heads shaped like axe heads that eat the handles of axes that have been left lying around. Sidehill Gougers; creatures with arms and legs longer on one side of its body, adept at running across slopes, but not up or down them.

The Magical Creatures of Native American discovery seemed to be more myth than reality. While some creatures appeared real, such as the blocky stone Chenoo and hardworking Menehune, others were a bit farfetched, like Amala the giant who holds the Earth up on a pole behind its back.

"Wicked!" Harry and Ron cheered at the Xolotl, a demonic underworld dog whose legs and feet are backwards and can swivel its ears in any direction. "I'd need an abacus to pronounce that name, though," said Harry. "Why don't the Natives give the English nicknames to these things and leave people's names alone?"

"I don't know. Look, a dragon! The Mexican Digger," Ron read, standing before a painting of a very plump dragon with tiny wings and fat, spiral-shaped horns curling around its head. Its entire body was a silvery fishscale blue. "The Mexican Digger is the only Western dragon species incapable of flight, due to its immense weight and undersized wings. Dwelling in inaccessible caves, the Mexican Digger uses its horns to drill tunnels underground. Diet consists mainly of fish..."

"I've seen this dragon before," said Harry, inspecting the painting.

"I don't remember it in Care of Magical Creatures," said Ron.

"No, this... Luna!" said Harry suddenly. "Ginny showed me a drawing of Luna's—a Crumple-Horned Snorkack—and it looked just like this. Look at the horns!"

"But this is a Mexican Digger," said Ron blankly.

"But this could be what inspired the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. I wonder if I could have a picture of this for Luna?"

"I don't know, Harry. If Luna finds out Snorkacks are real, she'll probably lose interest in them."

"Harry, come see this!" Hermione called from down the hall. Harry and Ron left the Magical Creatures section and found her on the verge of laughter, standing before an exhibit labeled _The Boy Who Lived_.

"Why am I not surprised?" Harry mused.

"Don't you think there's something odd about this?" asked Ron.

"What do you mean?"

"Really, Harry, you don't see anything amiss?" said Hermione. "Not the broad shoulders, rippling muscles, towering height..."

"Yes, well, I expect that'll all be accurate once the Protein Draughts take effect."

"I don't think they'll have you growing a foot taller," said Ron with a smirk. "Look, they've even made you taller than me—OI! IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE ME?"

"Shush, Ron!" Hermione urged.

"We'll see about this!" Ron growled. He drew his wand and took aim at his little stone likeness, which was short and chubby and bore a horrible resemblance to a young Neville Longbottom. With a few clever flicks, Ron adjusted the model's features until it was thin, gangly, and taller than the rest.

"There," he said with satisfaction, but his grin faded when he turned to find Hermione glaring at him in disapproval. "What? I'll do you, hang on..."

"Not any time soon, you won't!" Hermione raged.

Harry burst into laughter, and Ron leered at him before turning back to Hermione. "Do you really want people thinking you look like_ that?_" he asked, indicating the Hermione figurine in the case.

"Defacing museum property is highly illegal," said Hermione coldly. "We're supposed to be on our best behavior. Besides, I used to look like that once, do you remember?"

"Not in fifth year. This scene is supposed to depict a D.A. meeting. Your teeth should be normal, and you weren't all short and stumpy. In fact you had grown out nicely. You know, Dumbledore's Army wasn't the only uprising you caused that year..."

Hermione gave in to Ron's goofy grin and gave him one of her own.

"I _am_ still here!" Harry announced indignantly. "Come on, let's get back to the Ministry. I want to ask Milo about Wielder's friend."

When they returned to the American Ministry, the workday was nearly at an end. Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked briskly across the rope bridges and creaky walkways, eager to reach Milo's office before they were recognized. As they ducked through the mouth of the teepee labeled Magical Police Department, they nearly collided with Milo himself on his way out. He was accompanied by a short, balding man with thick bottle cap glasses and a grubby, frog-like face.

"Oh, h-hey, Harry," said Milo. He cleared his throat, then nudged his companion in the arm and told him "I'll catch up with you at the Chenoo, Penny. And don't mess with them while you're down there."

"Hey, you know me," said Penny. He grinned and gave Harry a nod before brushing past and disappearing into the hall.

"That was Pendergraph," Milo explained. "He's the office's resident practical joker. All those years on the force haven't got him down—that's nice, isn't it? I've got to go."

"Wait," said Harry, his eyes narrowed. "We've got more information on this Wielder case. We want to know about his friend, Kenny, also known as—"

"Sky?" said Milo in a choked voice.

"You know him, then?"

"Not exactly, I mean—"

"He seemed to know you," said Ron.

"I do, but..."

"And he also seemed to think you didn't have any authority over him," said Hermione.

"He's just being—er—"

"You're hiding something, aren't you? Come off it, are you really the Deputy Chief around here?" Ron demanded. "Or are you an intern that saw Harry's letter sitting on the desk of someone important?"

"Oh, of course I'm the Deputy Chief! Here, look," said Milo impatiently as he guided them to the door of his office and pointed at the nameplate beside it, which read _Milo Triggs, Deputy Chief._ "Now come in, quick," he whispered, casting furtive glances at the cubicles around them, the occupants of which were gathering their things and heading out the door.

"I'll have you know I have plenty of authority over Kenny Ness," said Milo as he led them into his office and closed the door behind them. "It's just that—he's got some dirt on me, all right?"

"He's blackmailing you?" asked Harry.

"Not really, but the thing is, I'm Muggleborn."

"There's nothing wrong with that!" exclaimed Hermione.

"That's not it. See, I'm a scientist at heart. When I found out that I was a wizard, and that there was such a thing as magic, I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it, actually," he said with a nervous laugh. "I rejected it."

Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth, but Ron raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Why'd you do that?" he asked.

"Because science makes sense, darn it! Sorry, I didn't mean to fly off the handle like that. I tried to continue my work," he went on, pacing back and forth in front of his desk. "I was one of the few independent scientists doing research in animal cloning—that's where you create a duplicate of an existing animal, sort of like manufacturing a twin."

"Blimey."

"I agree. The results were largely inconclusive, and there was—er—an incident. Involuntary magic. I had bottled it up for so long, you see."

"What happened?" asked Hermione in a small voice.

"I thought I had reached a major breakthrough. I thought I had realized actual animal cloning. Then I found out my partner, Dr. Wong, had faked the data in order to get funding. I was so angry, I... exploded. Literally. Brought the entire building to the ground."

"No!"

"It wouldn't have been so bad if it had just been my lab, but Dr. Wong happened to tell me about it at my apartment in Ohio—that's in the U.S.—Twenty-nine dead, including Wong. Several more injured," he said with a shiver.

Milo's words hung in the air heavily for a moment, then Harry spoke up, "How does Kenny know about this?"

"He was there. In fact he took the blame," Milo sighed. "He was very young at the time, and the Ministry thought it was his first sign of magic. Even his parents thought so. They had stepped out and left him in my care."

"And you let them believe that?"

"I know it was wrong." Milo retrieved a white rag from his pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead, taking a deep breath. "I hated myself for it. Kenny was let off, of course, but the community thought he was dangerous. Eventually, he and his parents moved to Canada. He moved out here to the Aztec capitol once he was of age, and he's kept my secret ever since. There are people working at this Ministry who lost family members in that incident. If they knew..."

"That's it," said Hermione quietly. "Panther told us to seek a man well-versed in Muggle magic. A scientist."

"That's what the Natives call it," said Milo with a weak smile. "I've always found that a bit amusing. Science, like magic, has its wonders and horrors."

"So then you must know how Wielder fits into all of this?" Harry asked.

"Oh, him? He and Kenny were friends in Canada. They moved out here together. Natural troublemakers. I've had to sort out quite a few of their messes. I admit, I've been rather lenient on Kenny, for obvious reasons. Wielder moved abroad for a family emergency, I believe, but he came back for a visit just recently."

"Why didn't you bloody tell us?" shouted Ron.

"I thought you'd be able to find him through official channels," said Milo defensively. "I've never told anyone the nature of my connection to Kenny."

"Why'd you tell us?" asked Harry.

"Kenny would have told you if I didn't. You can fool some people sometimes, but you can't fool everybody all the time."

"You've never met Severus Snape," muttered Ron.

"What's Wielder's real name, then?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. I honestly don't!" he insisted. "I've only ever heard his Native title."

"What did he do while he was here?"

"Nothing. It was actually surprisingly quiet. I had expected Sky and Wielder to return full-force. But, you know what they say about still waters. You know, there was one thing..."

"Yes?"

"It was never linked to those two, but I can't think of who else it would be. A mine was collapsed in New Mexico, and the gentlemen in question happened to be out of town when it occurred. I questioned them about it but there's really no evidence tying them to the case. The whole mine was dug up. Someone was looking for gold, I presume, but Kenny and Wielder would have just done it for thrills."

"Wait," said Ron, his brows furrowed in thought. "Do you know why the Natives called him 'Wielder?'"

"Yes, it's because he's always had a fascination with magical objects that are unique or rare. Probably why he and Kenny get along so well. I remember once he believed he had obtained the charmed sword of a legendary Prussian paladin, but that turned out to be fraudulent. Practically sold his soul for a set of rare arrowheads, last I heard."

"Might he have any interest in Dark artifacts?"

"I'm not sure, but I've been expecting one major spree from him for quite a while now. Kenny's recently been attempting a few get-rich-quick schemes, so there may be a debt involved. To pay off what one owes in one fell swoop... it never ends well, does it?"


	13. Time Magic

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A woman must do what a woman must do, and so must a man.

* * *

Hermione sighed happily into the withered pages of the thick tome in front of her. She was back home in Wizarding England, getting started on a very large book at one of the desks on the upper floor of Flourish and Blotts. Hermione's smile widened when she heard heavy footsteps clamoring up the stairs and saw Ron approaching.

"Hermione, I've found something that might have actually made this evening worthwhile," he said. "Something I could use to explain to George why I didn't agree to meet him tonight and stayed in this old dusty shop instead—"

"I'm not detaining you, Ron, you can go elsewhere," Hermione replied. "I just want to catch up on my reading. It's not as though I've forced you to go shopping with me, like Ginny might do. Though, to Harry's credit, he doesn't complain about it."

"He does to me," said Ron. "Besides, Ginny might go to a shop with something interesting in it."

"I've told you, you are not being held prisoner—Ron, what are you doing?"

Ron had formed circles with his fingers and was holding them over his eyes like a pair of glasses.

"I'm being Harry," he said. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Absolutely. I'll be Ginny, if you prefer. I'm interesting."

"Me too. I'm the Head of the Auror Department, almost. I don't complain. Not to your face, at least."

"That you don't. How was your day at the Auror office, dear? Oh, I worry about you so, chasing such dangerous cow-tipping criminals around the world!"

"Actually, I assign all the dangerous cases to my inferiors. Most of my day is spent throwing quills at the ceiling of my office for sport. I'm saving up for a dart board."

"But what's a dart board?" Hermione tilted her head.

"It's Muggle technology specially engineered so that you can throw things at it."

"Can I have one? I throw things for a living!"

"Hey!" said Ron, lowering his hands from his face. "Let's not say anything about Quidditch that we can't take back."

"You said you had something to show me," said Hermione boredly.

"Patience is a virtue. Geniuses know that, don't they?" said Ron. Hermione stared quizzically. "I mean,_ geniuses_ such as yourself act in accordance with particular tendencies and are privy to advanced knowledge exclusive to those of a certain intelligence level—oh Merlin I'm starting to sound like you..."

"I don't think you sound like a genius. What's gotten into you?"

Ron pulled a small book out of his robes and stuck it in front of Hermione's face. Hermione read its title, _Genius: The Hermione Granger Story_ by Norb W. Van Elder. She was speechless.

"I've bought it, along with this," said Ron, taking out another, much larger book and showing it to her. It was _King: The Ron Weasley Story_. "They were right next to that book Harry's been going on about. Odd, isn't it? Harry failed to mention them."

"Well!" said Hermione, standing up and taking the books from Ron. "Well!" she repeated, her eyes narrowed. "Hang on, why is my book only half the size of yours?"

"Dunno. Maybe because you're Muggleborn, Van Elder had trouble researching you?"

"It says here that the author had an exclusive interview with Seamus," said Hermione, poring over _King: The Ron Weasley Story_.

"Oh that's nothing, don't bother—hey, I said it's nothing!"

"Doesn't sound like it's nothing," said Hermione as she flipped through the book. "_'Ron was a legend in his own right,' recalls Mr. Finnegan,_" she read aloud. "'_He shagged Madame Rosmerta. You know, the bird that owns the Three Broomsticks... well, he wanted to, at least.'_"

"Don't act like you didn't know that already," said Ron in response to Hermione's smirk.

"_'He protected Harry and Hermione,'_" she continued. "_'Anyone sorry enough to mess with them often got a fistful of Weasley. I don't actually know what that means, but he protected them in other ways too. After our fifth year, it was clear that Hermione was off-limits to any of us, and somehow the other Houses got wind of it and they played along.'_"

Hermione's eyes shot up to meet Ron's, and he cleared his throat nervously under her glare.

"Off-limits?" she repeated venomously.

"I got you a Sugar Quill," said Ron, whose ears had gone red.

"OFF-LIMITS!" Hermione shouted. "_Ronald_ Weasley, you had no right to forbid anyone from dating me!"

"I didn't!"

"Off-limits!"

"Honestly, it wasn't me."

"Who was it, then? _Harry?_"

"No, but, well... blokes talk about girls sometimes. It happens. Sometimes when we talked about girls at Gryffindor, your name came up, but Harry and I made sure they didn't treat you like some sort of—object!"

"Oh of course, how could I forget? It was just Ron Weasley, the devout feminist—"

"_Eventually_, Fred and George came and told me that they'd 'taken care of it,' then that whole off-limits business got started."

"So it's their fault? Easy scapegoats, aren't they?" said Hermione, her hands on her hips and her lips in a thin line; Ron saw a great resemblance to Professor McGonagall and had to stop himself from grinning; it meant she was stern rather than angry with him. "You couldn't have cleared it up, no, not at all..."

"Why would I? The whole thing got started because I fancied you, and I didn't want you getting off with someone else, especially that McClaggen ogre."

"I fancied you as well, but I would never have claimed you as my property as though you were the last piece of dessert everyone's had their eye on."

"Everyone had their eye on me?"

"Hardly, but I was forced to endure _Lavender_ because I had the common decency not to shoo everyone away from you!"

"Maybe you should have... hang on..." Ron stopped and looked down at the cover of _Genius: The Hermione Granger Story_. "Bit odd that a foreign Magical historian that even _you_ don't know managed to get an exclusive interview with Seamus, isn't it?"

"I would think Seamus meets a lot of foreign Wizards on the Knight Bus," Hermione reasoned.

"_Norb W. Van Elder_... rearrange the letters..."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"No, it can't be!"

"I'll bet the 'W' doesn't even stand for anything. _That's_ why your book is so much smaller," said Ron, on the verge of laughter.

"But our names are spelled correctly," said Hermione in disbelief, opening one of the Van Elder books. "And look at these words... _perfunctory, vascillate, praetorian... _from the same girl responsible for _'Won-Won'?_" Hermione smirked. "And they're in perfect context. She must have one hell of an editor."

"That's harsh, Hermione," said Ron, though he was relieved; he had feared during Hermione's last encounter with Lavender that the two might reconcile with one another and become friends, and he had been told that's not good for any man. "Can't wait to tell Harry who his new favorite author really is."

"That's if I don't tell him first. Anyway, I think I'm ready to go home. I've found a helpful book on Goblin history that might come in useful for E.L.F. and in our current political entanglement."

"Sounds riveting. Let's go."

"You're coming too? Well, I plan on studying Magical Law tonight and it certainly won't be _interesting _to you. You've been warned."

"I'll be studying as well," said Ron defiantly. "And it will be interesting, because I'll be reading about myself."

"From the prespective of someone you royally hacked off," Hermione added, and Ron's grin disappeared.

"Yeah well you can forget about that Sugar Quill."

"It's not too late to walk across the street and meet up with George," Hermione pointed out.

"I know that. Honestly, it's as though you don't want my company."

"Well, er," Hermione faltered. "It is a bit of a distraction when you stop every ten minutes to suggest we do something else. It's not just me," Hermione added at Ron's eye roll. "There's a reason Harry avoids you when writing his speech."

"Have fun with each other, then," snapped Ron. "I'll just go off and be a childish layabout with George."

Hermione's brows scrunched up and her mouth hung agape for a moment in a sort of indignant awe. "Are you starting a row with me for your own personal entertainment?" she said.

"Right, how responsible of Harry to plan his speech so extensively, while I just meander through life, la-la-la," Ron quoted Hermione.

"I don't want to battle the green monster right now, Ron, please. I don't want you to be Harry."

"It's not a _green monster_!" Ron growled. "It's not a cartoon, and it's not funny. It's too real to be funny. If you think it grates on your nerves when I say it, imagine how I feel when the whole world says I'm not good enough for you!"

"Ron, might I remind you that you hold in your hand a published biography about you titled _King_?"

"A completely meaningless title! What am I king of? That's what I'd like to know. King of being born in a bin?"

"Were you born in a bin?" Ron scrunched his eyebrows in confusion and shook his head. "Then no, I don't think so."

"King of nothing, then. On second thought, that title has a lot of meaning."

"I've finished reassuring you. I don't know what brought this on but I'm almost certain it was silly and based entirely on lies. Am I going to find an open copy of today's Prophet on the kitchen table when I go home?"

Ron sighed angrily and said: "Yeah, you'll find quite a lengthy article detailing why exactly you should wed Harry and drop me. If you ever need a list of everything wrong with me and my sister, well, you've got one to cut out and hang on the wall. I don't even want to know how they found out that my mum once tried to brew a love potion; certainly explains where I learned how to trick you into offering your saintly presence and unblemished, angelic heart to someone like me."

"If we were short on bath tissue, you should have bought a proper roll. The Prophet isn't very absorbent," said Hermione in a lofty tone, though tears were pooling in her eyes. "If you want a list of my faults, too numerous to mention, see Rita Skeeter's published works."

"Those have no truth to them, though."

"Sometimes I feel it's impossible, my quest to attain your trust."

"I trust you, but I also trust you to spare my feelings. If everyone's telling me one thing..."

"It's not everyone. Ron, your mum thinks I'm the one that's not good enough for you. I've sensed it since we got together, perhaps even before."

"She's my mum, she's biased," Ron reasoned.

"_You're_ biased, towards me," said Hermione simply. "You're putting me up on a pedestal when I'm not perfect, and behind it all you know I'm not perfect; in fact, you frequently complain about it. You know, you're not being your usual self; you were decidedly chipper towards me just a moment ago."

"And my usual self is a grump, then?" said Ron, but he hesitated and amended, "sorry, I just... instead of being cross with you, I wanted to prove them wrong. I tried reading _Discerning the Transmundane_, which I got from your book list, but then I got a sort of bludger-to-the-head type of feeling and stopped. I thought maybe if I read with you instead, even if I'm reading this waste of parchment, it might be, er, constructive."

"You don't have to contemplate the top levels of Arithmantic theory, which I don't quite grasp yet myself, in order to be good enough for me. Booksmarts I've got; it's your brand of cleverness I want in my life."

"There are more important things than booksmarts and cleverness, I s'pose," Ron ceded, and Hermione blinked.

"We're more alike than anyone gives us credit for, aren't we?" Hermione observed. "Let's go home. I'm eager to read, and possibly even let you distract me."

"_Let me?_ Ha!" Ron scoffed. His smirk then faded and he said, quite serriously, "sorry about that green monster back there."

"It's all right; we've always had our ups and downs, and this 'down' has definitely been better and more helpful than the last ones." Hermione then smirked and began walking towards the exit. "As for the forthcoming 'up,' well, I have high hopes."

* * *

"More beast blood spilled in the East Midlands. The rumored werewolf hotspot has played host to a series of grisly deaths of werewolves, many of which were not recognized by the Ministry as known werewolves. The cause of these deaths is unknown but not inconsistent with animal maulings, though there are no creatures, magical or not, indigenous to the area that hunt werewolves. This incident, along with recent vampire executions in London and dragon slayings just outside the reaches of Ministry jurisdiction, has many in the international magical community speculating that a 'purge' is being carried out across the country, of all creatures that threaten humankind.

"Don't forget, Christmas shoppers, that Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is running a sale on Bomb Wands; give your friends dynamite explosions at firecracker prices! Also flying off the shelves is my new autobiography, _Radio Lee_, which has just reached the four hundred and ninety-ninth spot on Witch Weekly's Top Five Hundred Best-Seller list. That about wraps it up for this evening's Potterwatch here at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley. Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Stay tuned for ten hours of dead air."

Neville smirked at the wooden wireless on the sink in front of him. He was adjusting the collar of his robes in front of the bathroom mirror in the flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He could hear Lee doing inventory in the shop downstairs and casting anti-theft enchantments, though George had said that very afternoon that a visit from the Midnight Thief would be good publicity for the shop.

Satisfied with his sharp appearance, Neville stepped away from the mirror and began tidying up the living room in case Hannah planned on coming into the flat. She had become cautious about moving things along with him after Luna's return and he was determined to quell her fears on their date. There would be no slices of pizza stuck to the bottom of his shoe, indoor thunderstorms, or getting banned from Muggle restaurants this time.

Neville had just vanished the last of the trash with a wave of his wand when there was a knock at the door. He walked to the door and stopped before it to take a deep breath.

A high-pitched cry sounded from the hallway: "_Neville, I love you!_" Neville frowned and opened the door. It was George, grinning from ear to non-ear.

"Where are you taking me tonight, love?" he asked.

"Not now, George, this is important," said Neville as he readjusted his robes subconsciously.

"You have no idea," George replied as he stepped past Neville and into the flat.

"What do you mean?"

"Christmas is just around the corner, eh?" said George vaguely, looking around at Neville's handiwork. "Nice job cleaning, by the way."

"What's important?"

"Just that we're knocking on the door of Christmas. It's coming."

"Right." Neville shrugged. "Where's Angie?"

"Stashed safely away at Hogsmeade," said George with a smile. "Oops! Did I say 'stashed?'"

"She said she was coming over tonight."

"Did she? That's a shame. We'll be elsewhere, you and I. This is important."

"What's important?"

George grinned devilishly, then sat down and picked up a copy of _Radio Lee_ and began flipping through it. "Where were you going to take Hannah tonight?"

"I _was_ going to take her to meet my gran. Apparently I'm not?"

"Heavens no, Nev. I've just turned her away downstairs."

"What—why?" Neville demanded.

"Because this is important! If it makes you feel better, she looked gorgeous. Very revealing dress and all."

Neville merely stared at George who was pursing his lips to avoid laughing.

"What the hell are you on about?" he finally asked.

"She's meeting your gran, really? Now I know what to get her for Christmas: an anti-jinx hat."

"Stop fucking around!"

"All right, no need to shout at me with such vile language. I'm here because I've got an early gift for you. A great gift. The gift to end all gifts. It's philanthropy revolutionized." George was beaming.

"What gift?"

"Calm down. My dad always said that patience is a virtue."

"Fine," Neville growled. He turned to leave.

"It's your parents," said George, stopping him in his tracks.

Neville turned around and fell silent as George waited gleefully for his words to sink in.

"My parents are insane."

George's smile faltered. "I know," he said, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "They don't have to be, though."

Neville's expression hardened; he fixed George with a glare that made him look down at the floor.

"It's what I've been doing at St. Mungo's all this time. I'm working with your mum and dad on their—their little problem. I wanted to bring them back by Christmas, so you could enjoy it with them, but so far it's been tricky."

"What are you doing to them?"

"Legilimency at first, but I'm not skilled enough for that. I was stumped until I discovered a better way."

"What way?" Neville's expression was stony, but George could hear an encouraging hint of hope in his tone.

"With this." George pulled an hourglass out of his pocket. Neville looked closer and saw that instead of sand the top half of the hourglass was filled with dozens of tiny eggs that slowly fell one-by-one into the bottom half and hatched into fluttering miniature canaries.

"It's a Time Bomb," George explained. "Top secret Ministry project, originally developed as an anti-Voldemort countermeasure. When activated, it explodes and reverses the effects of time within the area of effect. Scrimgeour started the project after all the Time-Turners in the Ministry were destroyed. I got the idea from one of those stupid Jensen masks."

"TIME?" Neville barked. George recoiled.

"Er—yes. Don't you get it? This thing can undo the attritions of time!"

"OR IT COULD KILL THEM! HOW DID YOU EVEN GET YOUR HANDS ON ONE OF THOSE?"

"I've been approved by the Minister to use one to fix the Room of Requirement—a smashing success, might I add—and I've just finished making the adjustments for your parents—"

"YOU WANT TO USE AN ANTI-VOLDEMORT COUNTERMEASURE ON MY PARENTS!"

"That's an ignorant way to think of it. Besides, that's not even the bad part."

"Oh _really?_"

"No. See, if your parents have the effects of time reversed, they'll have to relive their torture. I don't know what that might do to them—"

Neville lurched forward and threw a punch into George's eye in one quick movement.

"OI! THAT ALMOST HURT!" George brushed Neville off but not for long. "I'm trying to help you!" George insisted, leaning back to dodge another swing. "Don't you want them to remember?"

"I don't want your help! How _dare_ you!" Neville emphasized this by shoving George with all his might; George stumbled back into the coffee table and its legs snapped from the impact. George's Time Bomb flew out of his hand and landed softly on the couch.

"Those are my parents, not some project you can use to ignore the fact that Fred is dead," said Neville, looming over the furious George. "You're not even George anymore. You're an arrogant prat and it's a wonder Angie still wants you—or maybe she wants Fred. I don't know. But I'm trying to live life after all that happened and you're just... pretending..."

Neville fell silent; George had risen to his feet. He made to draw his wand, but Neville acted quickly in fear. "_Expelliarmus!_" he shouted, and George's wand flew behind the couch.

Neville paused, still fuming, then raised his wand to strike. George raised his hand at the same time and shouted "_Protego!_" Neville's unspoken curse shot through the room in a flash of blue light and collided with George's shield with a heavy thud that sent a shockwave through the room; the curse was deflected through a window, punching a big hole in the glass.

George grinned but his triumph was short-lived; a second curse from Neville shattered his barrier and knocked him back over the fallen table. George scrambled to his feet and retalliated with a curse of his own, fired from his open hand, but its strength was diminished so much that Neville was able to vanish it away with a wave of his wand.

In the next attack, George pelted Neville with his copy of _Radio Lee_. After zapping the book to dust, Neville saw that George had capitalized on the distraction and thrown himself behind the couch. He emerged quickly, wand in hand, and Neville turned tail and sprinted towards the door. George said no incantation, but Neville could hear the powerful curse barreling down the hallway behind him. He fell prone and the curse passed over him in a wave of heat and blew the flat's door clean off.

Neville made his escape through the open doorway and learned quickly that the door had been lodged in the wall at the top of the staircase; he tripped over it and tumbled down the stairs, groaning in pain along the way. He crawled away from the bottom step just in time to avoid another blast from his pursuer.

After carefully stepping over the obstructive door and shuffling down the stairs, George stepped out into the aisles of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in search of Neville. When he made it to the exit, he found that it was still locked; Neville hadn't had the time to undo Lee's anti-theft charms.

George saw movement at the Potterwatch broadcast booth and fired another heavy curse in its general direction. Neville scurried out from under the booth, barely avoiding the blast which landed with the weight of a cannonball and made the whole sound system go haywire. The _On Air_ light flickered on and the record player's needle dropped over _Celestina Warbeck's Greatest Hits_ and began playing.

_It's 'cause I love you..._

"_Stupefy!_" Neville shouted. George ducked to avoid the bright red wave and it exploded against the Wonder Witch stand behind him; love potions and daydream charm kits cascaded over the ground and heart-shaped bubbles and floating flower petals arose in their wake.

_It's 'cause I love you..._

A flurry of hexes, dartlike and silver, rained down over Neville as he took refuge under a wooden register. One of the needlelike shots penetrated his exposed arm and he felt it go numb instantly.

_But you still can't have my cauldron..._

The music came to a stop with a harsh record scratch as Neville flung the entire record player in George's direction and it crashed through a shop window. George turned around and saw several pedestrians gathering on the street outside to observe the chaos. When he turned back, Neville had disappeared down one of the aisles.

George raced through the shop in hot pursuit, peeking through the shelves to try and spot Neville's crisp new robes betwixt the merchandise. After combing the shop hastily, George stopped to catch his breath. Panting, he heard a creaking noise beside him — his eyes widened to the size of coins when he identified the sound — the tall wooden shelf of Skiving Snackboxes beside him was being tipped over onto him. George shrieked as it came crashing down, and the shelves behind him fell like dominoes until half the shop was reduced to a pile of wooden rubble and scattered candies.

Neville turned away from the debris and saw the witches and wizards outside staring at him in awe. He had only taken one step towards the front door when something behind him exploded and he was pushed over by the force.

George emerged from the scraps of wood as the dust cleared, clutching his wand tightly at his side. Neville climbed to his feet as well. They flourished their wands at once, and Neville raised a Shield Charm just as George's curse hit it like a meteor; the resulting blast disintegrated a display of Trick Garments and set off a whole row of Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-Bangs.

As fireworks rampaged overhead, George stood up and made a startling discovery: while half of the shop had been destroyed and set alight with sparkling fireworks, the other was now moist, pungent, and many shades of green; the Portable Swamps had been activated, turning half of the shop into a jungle.

George walked carefully between the many pools of black water that reflected the lightshow above. "Nev?" he whispered, scanning the shining, mossy hills and thick tree trunks under the vines and foliage. There was no sign of Neville.

Then George heard a splash behind him and Neville sprung from underwater like an alligator ambushing its prey and struck with a powerful curse. George barely had time to widen his eyes before the curse hit him square in the chest and he was lifted off his feet. He soared under the dazzling ceiling of sparks and landed face-down over the demolished Wonder Witch stand, where he lay still amidst the rising pink heart-shaped bubbles.

Neville crawled out of the water and stormed out of the ransacked shop, slamming the door and cracking its glass as he left.

* * *

George awoke to a slew of unpleasant feelings. His head felt as though it weighed thirty pounds, and the fumes from the love potions stung his nostrils and made him gag. He also felt the oddest sensation, one that most people chalked up to butterflies in the stomach. He grabbed onto a nearby shelf that had been blasted in half and pulled himself to his feet.

As the crowd outside the shop had not yet dispersed, George surmised that little time had passed since his conflict with Neville. Then George remembered with a wide grin that Angelina was supposed to visit the shop. Clutching his throbbing forehead with one hand, he gathered a quill and parchment and jotted down a note (_Tidy up the shop a bit, won't you, Angie?_) and attached it to the shop's front door on his way out.

George stumbled down the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley, limping towards the Leaky Cauldron in search of Neville. In his haste, he tripped into a middle-aged woman on the street.

"My word, have you bathed in cologne?" she said, nudging him away.

"I spilled a love potion," he mumbled.

"I'm afraid it isn't working. Watch where you're going next time," she said, and she walked away.

When George made it to the Leaky Cauldron he found Neville sitting alone at the bar. He made a mental note to apologize to Hannah, and also to make sweet love to Angelina —

"Agh!" George groaned at his thoughts. "What's wrong with me?"

"You smell," answered an old wizard at the booth beside him.

George ignored the man and crawled over a bar stool next to Neville. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar and saw that beads of blood had trickled down his face from under his fringe.

"Don't move out," he sighed. Neville said nothing. "I was foolhardy, I know. In fact, I was downright Perciful. I violated my Never Be Worse Than Perce policy and I'm sorry."

"You just thought you were better than you are," said Neville. "You thought that with no training in Healing you could solve something that's eluded the top researchers on the subject—namely, me."

"I really was visiting Percy at first. I just happened to see your parents. Your mum had wandered onto Percy's floor and was taking people's empty potion vials and keeping them for herself."

Neville smiled wistfully at that.

"I saw the mediwitches guiding her back... I just... I thought, since they aren't dead, something could be done for them. I was talking to Percy and that always reminds me of Fred. Percy won't admit it—and neither would I without a head injury—but he and I became really close because of what happened to Fred. The prat still blames his prat self."

"And you don't blame your prat self?" Neville caught George's eye and winced at his bloodstained face. "Admit it, the only reason you don't want me to move out is because I'm another distraction for you."

"Because you're my friend!"

"I think I will move out. I'm sorry, George, but—"

"You could move to Hogsmeade!" George sat straight with excitement. "It's perfect!"

"I'm confused."

"You could take over as Hogsmeade Branch Manager, and I could have my beloved back here. Two birds, one stone! Don't you agree?"

"Your beloved? Er—I don't know. I'll think about it."

"Brilliant. As long as we're sorted, I'm happy. Hey, would a Honeyjuice cheer you up? I've still got some left in the stock room."

"No, they remind me of piss."

George nodded knowingly. "All right, then. Anyway, if Kingsley found out that I was using time magic on something that isn't a thousand years old, he'd have my other ear.

"What are you going to do with that thing?"

"I'm storing it in my vault at Gringotts, where it's safe. I've learned a lesson about tampering with magic that's beyond me."

"At least you fixed the Room of Requirement—"

Neville was interrupted as the door of the pub swung open loudly. Angelina was standing in the doorway, George's crumpled note clenched in her fist. She walked to the bar, her eyes fixed on George, who had gone starry-eyed and even more red.

"There you are," said George dizzily.

"George, what the hell have you done to the shop? And what's this, asking me to—"

"I wish to make love to you."

"What?" Angelina blanched. "George, what's happened in the shop? What's happened to your face?"

"You should see the other guy. If you think _I_ look bad, you should see that bloke's teeth..."

"Not that you had anything to do with that," said Neville with a smirk.

"_You?_" said Angelina. "You had a fight?"

"A war," corrected George. "It was actually quite fun."

"Well, have fun cleaning up, because I'm not doing it."

"I look forward to it. Anyway, what're you wearing under that?" George made a grab for Angelina's shirt and she slapped his hand away, speechless. George's eyes widened and he clapped his hands over his mouth. "Merlin, what am I saying?"

Angelina eyed him as though he had grown a third arm.

"How long were you passed out over those fumes, mate?" Neville asked. "I didn't think you'd been knocked out. You were moving..."

"Oh!" said George, struggling to remember. "Yes, that's it. Love fumes. That's why I've gone loopy. Forgive me, Angelina, but I want you! I mean, I've sustained a head injury and I don't know what I'm saying."

"I'll take you to St. Mungos," said Angelina slowly, trying to hide her amusement at George's drunken mumbling.

"Perfect, I'll go get the Time Bomb first—only joking, Nev! Come on, Kitten, let's go. I've got to talk to you about how I've completely rearranged your employment anyway."


	14. Ecksmas

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.

* * *

Blackboot followed reluctantly behind Roque and Elena as they entered Room of Requirement; it had recognized Elena's desires and decorated itself with shining red-and-green ribbons, gold bells, and many sprigs of holly.

"Come now, Blackboot, where's your Christmas cheer?"

"Ellie, you know I hate this time of year."

"It's not like you to be so withdrawn."

"How could I not, with what's going on?"

"I know," Roque agreed. "We're still second to Ravenclaw! Can you believe it, those swots?"

"Wasn't referring to that. In fact, I forgot..."

"Why are you rhyming with everything we say?"

"Some seventh-year sod placed a curse on me today!"

Elena laughed and said, "I expect he wanted to help you to get in the holiday mood."

"I hope you'll understand if it doesn't change my attitude."

There was a knock at the door.

"Password?" Roque asked.

"The stars are out tonight," spoke Munky's voice beyond the wall. Roque unlocked the door and let him in.

"You're late," said Roque.

"Caught some of our Housemates playing jokes on some Ravenclaw second-years," Munky explained. "I had to step in and break it up. Timmy was there, pretending he's tough."

Blackboot sniggered, then asked, "Any points for Hufflepuff?"

"No teachers around to see it, I'm afraid."

"But why help those bookworms if you won't get paid?"

"You did the right thing, Munky," said Roque. "Now don't let it happen again. We'll have to catch up with Ravenclaw after the break."

"Won't we be the swots if that's the route we take?"

"No, we'll be the winners! Do you know of the last time Hufflepuff won the House cup? Me neither!"

"Speaking of Timmy, he does contribute a lot of House points to Ravenclaw in class," said Elena thoughtfully. "We should ask him to join the Bandits. He'll become like us—you know, corrupted, and he'll start losing points instead."

"I knew you had a thing for that dunderhead," said Blackboot with a grimace. "Bet you'd just love to curl up in the library, leaving your books unread..."

"What's got your wand in a knot?"

"Isn't it obvious? I hate Christmas. I hate it a lot."

"One would think you'd like it, if only for the presents."

"I suppose getting something for nothing is pleasant."

"Obviously," said Roque. "So why are you being so insolent?"

"It just lacks that crucial element of terrorizing the innocent."

"Theoretically, you still could," said Roque. Blackboot's brows shot up in intrigue. "But we mustn't. Think of McGonagall's warning."

"Really, when did you all get so boring?"

"Besides, it's not something for nothing," said Elena. "You'll be getting presents for your friends this year, won't you?"

"'Course I will, I always do..." Blackboot's eyes widened. "But perhaps friends won't be the only people I could give them to!"

"_Wotyufinkin?_" asked Munky, his mouth full of toast.

"I'm thinking of Christmas with a twist. I could give gifts not found on anyone's wishlist. They'll look promising, but be wicked in some way. I could make the whole common room as loud as gunplay."

"Pranks disguised as presents? You might be onto something there. I'm sure nobody's thought of that," said Roque in mock-awe.

"But we haven't got any joke shop contraband," said Munky.

"Yes, we've got a massive stock of joke items at hand," Blackboot assured. "There's a big collector, name o' Filch. I'm sure you guys can at least rob _him_ without guilt?"

"No!" said Elena. "Pranking fellow students privately isn't against the rules, but stealing from Filch? We can't do that!"

"Steal? No, I'm taking it back."

"No, you're not," said Roque. Blackboot's face fell until Roque elaborated, "Ellie's taking it back. She wasn't mentioned in the letters. She can afford the trouble."

"And spend a week pruning Venomous Tentacula for Sprout or hauling bales of hay for Hagrid," scoffed Elena. "I will not!"

"That won't happen if you don't get caught," said Blackboot. Elena rolled her eyes. "Come on, Elena, I'm going mental here with all this goody-two-shoes business! Just nip in there, pull a few items, and you're gone faster than Slughorn's dinner!"

At the look in Blackboot's eyes, Elena softened.

"Oh all right," she said. "'Business' and 'dinner' don't rhyme, by the way."

"Brilliant! I think the charm is finally going away—er—I think it's finally gone."

* * *

"Guys, it's really getting rather irritating," said Harry, shooting his best glares at Ron, Hermione, and the sniggering portrait of Sirius Black. Beside him, Ginny was struggling to hide her smirk.

"I know, mate," said Ron. "When somebody constantly references a book about himself, it gives me a king-sized headache."

As the end of the month was near, Ron's appearance was ragged and shadows had formed under his eyes. He looked like a very smug insomniac.

"Stop it," ordered Harry.

"Voicing your frustration only encourages him," said Hermione from the armchair next to Ron, her face buried in a book titled _Twenthieth Century Goblin Relations_. "You don't have to be a genius to work that out."

"I'm sorry, am I being a royal pain?" Ron asked her.

"Yes, according to my calculations."

"Tact never was my crowning achievement—"

"All right, that's enough!" snapped Harry. "Listen, I only went on about that book to make a joke of the whole hero thing. I don't _want_ to be called a hero. You know that, don't you? Of course you do. Now if you're done we should really get going. We're due at the Burrow."

"No we're not," said Ginny. "There's been a change of plans. We're having Christmas at Bill's this year."

"Okay, but why?"

"Fleur's pregnant, Harry."

"Yes?"

The room fell silent. Hermione looked up from her book.

"Just go with it," said Ron. "Best to just do what Fleur wants and not ask questions. They have the strength of two, you know."

"That's not how it works," said Hermione. "But you should still accomodate Fleur. Even if she's only a few months along, it has adverse effects—"

"Right, can we move along while I'm still blissfully ignorant about all that?" said Ron as he walked to the door and took his coat off the rack.

"You'd do well to learn about _all that!_" said Hermione as she followed him.

"Why?" he asked, spinning around to face her. "You're not..."

"No, but someday—"

"Someday! I'll learn then."

"You're infuriating."

"I think it's uplifting," said Ginny when they arrived at the door. "Even with the full moon near, he's still the same Ron," she said while ruffling Ron's darkened hair.

"I know more than you think," he said, batting her hand away. "Bill's briefed me. I'm not to make any comments about her weight, size, or appetite."

"That applies to all women at all times, idiot."

_*crack*_

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny touched down on the sands of a cold winter beach and braced themselves against the biting wind. The world around them was very pale, from clouded sky to metallic sea. The group set off across a sandy hill towards Shell Cottage. Along the way, Harry nudged Ron and turned away from the path, leading his friends to the grave of Dobby the House Elf.

"Happy Christmas, Dobby," said Harry as he conjured a bouquet of flowers to rest before the headstone. "I'm not giving you my socks, though, I'm nearly frozen here."

"Reckon this was his favorite season, thanks to me," said Ron.

"Come on." Harry cleared his throat and led them in a trudge down the hill towards Shell Cottage.

They were greeted at the door by Bill, whose scarred face broke into a smile when he saw them. He wished them a happy Christmas and brought them inside, where they found Arthur, Molly, Percy, and Fleur sitting around the living room table, upon which sat a tray holding a teapot and several mugs of tea. A shining Christmas tree stood tall in the corner of the room, scattered with silver hippogriffs, shiny red-and-green balls, gold bells, and sparkling snowflakes.

"Ah, 'Arry, we were just deescussing zee sex," said Fleur.

"Pardon?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow. Percy tutted and shook his head.

"Eet's a girl!"

Though they had just been out in the cold, Ginny and Hermione seemed to warm up at the news as they shared excited looks and took their seats. Their crooning and congratulations drowned out Ron's sigh of disappointment.

"Where's George?" he asked, looking around the room.

"He's gone to get Andromeda and Teddy," said Bill.

"They'll be the same age," said Hermione. "Teddy and—oh..."

"We haven't decided on a name yet, but, as she's a girl, it'll be up to Fleur," said Bill in a rehearsed tone while Fleur nodded at his side.

"They'll go to Hogwarts together, won't they?"

"'Ogwarts? Possibly, but we 'avent deecided on zat as well."

"Yes we have, dear."

There was a silent moment in which Fleur glared at Bill, then Arthur cleared his throat and spoke up: "I think we'd better check on dinner. Molly?"

After Arthur and Molly left the room, there was a knock at the door, then it swung open before Bill could answer it. In walked George, looking top-heavy; when he turned around to hang his bowler hat on a nearby shelf, everyone saw that Teddy had been strapped to his back.

"Cheers, Weasleys," said George as he crouched down until Teddy's feet reached the floor and unraveled the straps binding him.

"Wotcha!" said Teddy. As soon as he was free, he made a dash towards the Christmas tree, fascinated; everyone winced in anticipation, but Teddy managed to reach the tree without stumbling over and there was a collective breath of relief around the room.

"Where's Andy?" asked Bill.

"Andy happens to have a date this evening, if you can believe it. Not that she can't get a date, but you know, losing a loved one."

"I do." Bill winced. "But good for her. I wouldn't expect Andromeda to become a lonely old shut-in. She's a Tonks, after all."

"And Mum and Dad?"

"They're in the kitchen, preparing dinner."

"You should be helping zem, no?" said Fleur.

"Nothing would please me more, honey, but I suspect they're enjoying being alone."

"Ah." Fleur's frustrated pout faded and she smiled tearily. "I caught zem kissing in zee den earlier."

"Enough!" said Ron, clapping his hands over his ears. He removed them however when he noticed that Teddy was doing the same by his side.

"Hang on, there's something wrong here, and I'm not just talking about that ridiculous mustache Percy's trying to grow," said George. "There's a tree, and a family—could use a bit more whimsy, but that's where I come in—ah! Where are the gifts?"

"In the other room," said Bill. "In fact, could you help me fetch them?"

"I've got ours in here," said Hermione. She then began unloading colorfully wrapped gifts from her little bag, much to Teddy's amazement.

Arthur and Molly returned from the kitchen with matching grins and it wasn't long before the first present was unwrapped. Bill and Fleur received a stockpile of baby's clothes and toys, most of which were hand-me-downs. Ron did not hesitate to relinquish his old teddy bear as though he could not stand the sight of it. Percy gave the expecting couple a pair of magical mirrors, each displaying what's reflected in the other. "I use these to watch for tomfoolery in the workplace, but they'd come in useful monitoring over your child's crib," he said.

Harry accepted a gift from George with caution, but it turned out to be a harmless pack of Honeyjuice beverages. In fact, everybody received Honeyjuice beverages from George, who looked glad to be rid of them.

Ron watched with anxiety as Hermione opened his gift to her. It was a beige teacup with a magically animated design of little brown House Elves dancing a conga line around the side of the cup. He relaxed however when Hermione's face lit up and she pulled him into a hug; apparently she did not consider this item a relic of House Elf enslavement.

Predictably, Ron received sweets. After unwrapping his third jar of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans he got quite bored, but he chuckled warmly at the bezoar Charlie had sent from Romania.

For Arthur, a Muggle magic set from Harry ("Look, Molly, the coin vanished! No wand!") and, for Molly, a signed copy of Walt Lesae's new spellbook _Ways of the Wand_ from Ron.

"Can you believe Ron and Harry have _met_ him?" she said with starry eyes.

"Met him?" Ginny mumbled. "They got piss-drunk—"

"Ginny, could I have a word?" said Harry quickly, and he whisked her off into the kitchen before she could object.

"Yes?" she prompted once there.

"Love you," he began. She nodded slowly, and he scratched his neck nervously and said, "Did you like my gift?"

"You haven't given me a gift."

"Oh! Right, Hermione didn't have it in her bag. Here," he said, pulling a card out of his pocket and handing it to her.

"Gourmet Chocolate of the Month Club?" she read, examining the card. She cocked an eyebrow and looked up at Harry, who was gazing expectantly.

"A new box of chocolates every month. I've ordered you a one-year subscription."

"I love it," she said. "Assuming it wasn't meant for Ron and you haven't given it to me by mistake."

"Wish I had. He wasn't too thrilled about those Every Flavor Beans."

"You'll be glad you gave it to me. Trust me."

Harry felt a mixture of excitement and pride, and found his hand wandering to his pocket and grasping the ever-present box containing Ginny's engagement ring. He was a second away from lowering himself to one knee when he heard the clamor of screams, crashes, and shattering glass in the adjacent room.

"That'll be Teddy," said Ginny with wide eyes, and she rushed with Harry into the living room.

"Everyone all right?" asked Bill, who was lifting the fallen Christmas tree upright, next to a very startled Teddy. The entire area was covered in broken ornaments and pine needles. "Teddy, don't move until we clear this up."

"He almost made it to the golden phoenix at the top," said George as he and Percy flicked their wands and magicked the broken ornaments back in place on the tree. "Probably should have camped out at that silver Hippogriff there and headed for the summit tomorrow."

"Come, let's see if you're hurt," said Harry as he walked Teddy into the kitchen. "You should know better than to climb things."

"You'd be surprised at all the things a person can climb," George said after him. "Lee and I went to the Knockturn Alley Theatre last night—"

"That smut show!" gasped Molly.

"No, no, it was a comedy. It may have started out a bit slow, but it got really funny towards the end."

"That's probably because you started sober and got drunk halfway through," said Percy haughtily.

"Oh, right."

"What happened?" said Ron.

"Perhaps we ought to discuss something more appropriate," said Hermione, looking none too pleased at Ron's interest.

"It was Christmas Eve. It's supposed to be inappropriate. What'd you do on Christmas Eve—don't tell me you were _reading?_"

"I took Ron to visit my parents," said Hermione.

"Boring. Did you at least shag afterwards?"

"Young man!" said Molly in shock—Ron, who was nodding from behind Hermione, stopped and adopted an affronted expression.

"We're all adults here," said George, raising his hands in surrender.

"Actually, there is one more gift," said Bill.

"That's right, I nearly forgot! Wait here," said George as he and Bill disappeared into the hallway and shuffled up the stairs.

They returned moments later carrying a big pill-shaped birdcage. Perched inside was a plump tawny owl with fluffy plumage of white and brown swirls that resembled chocolate syrup being stirred into a glass of milk. The owl looked disgruntled at the bright green bow that had been tied to its cage.

"Ta-da!" said George.

"To our wonderful mum, from George, Percy, and myself!" Bill added.

Molly covered her mouth, eyes wide, then placed her hands in her lap. "Oh, this is—but Errol—"

"Could do with a quiet life from now on," said Bill decisively, and his mother sighed in concession.

"Her name is Vail," said George. "She's a tough one, too. Reminds me a lot of Harry's old owl, actually."

"I don't think Hedwig would appreciate that comparison," said Harry as he and Teddy emerged from the kitchen.

"Then she definitely wouldn't have appreciated the name George picked for her," said Percy. "_Fredwig_. Thankfully, I intervened"

"Thought I'd honor the both of them at once," said George defensively. He then patted Harry's shoulder and said, "You know your owl was the toast of the coop. I wasn't really going to go through with it, anyway. Can't go naming everyone after everyone else, can we?"

Harry frowned. "I suppose not."

A rooster's crow sounded from the kitchen; Vail flapped her wings against the bars of her cage in distress.

"Oh, that'll be the timer. Dinner's ready," said Arthur. "Ron, Bill, come help me with the food, please. I'll need somebody to set the table."

Once table was set, the food transported, and Teddy properly secured in his chair, everyone sat down to a feast of turkey, sausages, roast chestnuts and potatoes, and christmas pudding.

"Arthur, put that silly thing away, we're eating!" Molly admonished as Arthur attempted to levitate the plate of sausages with his black-and-white plastic Muggle wand.

"I was curious," he replied in a dignified tone. "It really is an excellent gift, Harry," he added.

"Harry was especially thoughtful this year," Ginny agreed. "He bought me a subscription to the Gourmet Chocolate of the Month Club."

"You all sound so surprised," said Harry crossly.

"Chocolate of the month?" Ron repeated. "That's a good one, mate. Wish I'd thought of that."

"I don't. I love my teacup," said Hermione.

"I meant for meself. Teacups are fine, but they don't taste nearly as good."

"Yes but you can use it to drink all that Honeyjuice," said George hopefully.

"Not a chance," said Hermione. "I'm afraid I'm far too compassionate towards my teeth to subject them to that."

"Suit yourself, I'm not taking them back."

"Speaking of thoughtfulness," said Molly, "I should hope you would exercise more of it on Chrismtas, George. Instead, you use it as a dumping ground for your unwanted merchandise."

"Everyone wants my merchandise, Mum."

"Clearly," muttered Percy under his breath.

"So, Harry, any leads on the Midnight Thief?" said Arthur, cutting across both of them.

"I can't discuss it," Harry replied. "It would be unethical."

"Ah well, here's hoping something turns up," said Bill with a smirk.

"If you must know, the Midnight Thief is not a top priority of the Aurors. The whole thing has been blown out of proportion by the" — Harry speared a piece of turkey with his fork for emphasis — "_Prophet._"

"It's not you, is it—the Midnight Thief?" asked George.

"Why would I steal from Borgin and Burke's?"

"Some people are saying you did it to put Borgin out of business," said Arthur. "Only this time they're painting you as a sort of vigilante. They say you steal from Dark wizards to disarm them. It's better than previous rumors at least, eh?"

"Only slightly."

"If you ask me, there's no room in the Wizarding world for a vigilante," said Percy.

"What're they saying about me?" asked Ron.

"'Ron who?'" supplied George.

"Don't see any books being written about you, you git."

"In due time, brother."

"Eet is true," said Fleur. "I 'ad a craving for chocolate zee uzzer night, and in zee box I found Ron's Chocolate Frog card. Ron 'as become a wizard of notoriety! Eet inspired me to start a collection."

Ron grinned wide and went red to the tips of his ears.

"I'll tell you who's not taking the Midnight Thief lightly: the goblins," said Bill. "They've been on edge as of late, even more than usual. They seem to think it only a matter of time before the thief strikes Gringotts."

Harry was reminded of Wielder's reputation as a collector of rare magical items. Many rare magical items were goblin-made, though one wouldn't expect to find such treasures in Gringotts. It was a bank run by goblins, but Harry wasn't sure any of them stored their own belongings there.

"Here's hoping the thief is one of them," said Arthur. "A goblin's view of a crime is that it's ten times worse if committed by a wizard."

"They don't have any leads of their own, by any chance?" asked Hermione.

"No more than what the Prophet's given them—in other words, none."

"I've got it!" said Ron. He nudged Harry, and said, "We could use Gringotts as a trap! There's no faster way to get caught than trying to rob that place. Why don't we use the bank as bait?"

"You'll get no cooperation from the goblins, especially you three," warned Bill.

"We don't need cooperation, we're Aurors!"

Molly looked like she wanted to retort, but held her tongue and took a sip of pumpkin juice.

"That's outrageous!" said Hermione. "Do you really think wizards should be allowed to do whatever they please, even if it violates goblin rights?"

"Do _you_ really think I'd need cooperation if it were humans? In fact, their being short and ugly is the only reason we haven't already set up a sting operation. We respect them a bit too much, if anything."

"That's not something we can do under Robards' nose, either," said Harry, rubbing his chin in thought.

"I can't believe you're _actually_ considering this!" said Hermione.

"If it'll help to catch this thief, it would be absolutely unethical _not_ to do so just to avoid making your boss look good," said George.

"George..." Arthur sighed.

"Hang on, though," said Hermione, calming herself. "This isn't something you can just try to _wing_," she said, glaring at Ron. "But perhaps you could do this diplomatically; open negotiations with them, address their concerns about the thief targeting Gringotts, and organize a group effort to stop him."

"You're right, I know," said Harry. "So, it's a plan. At least, until Robards or the goblins shoot it down."


End file.
